35 


*P  3Tan 


PIP:    A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH. 
GETTING  TOGETHER. 
THE  FIRST  HUNDRED  THOUSAND. 
SCALLY:THE  STORY  OF  A  PERFECT  GENTLE- 
MAN.    With  Frontispiece. 
A  KNIGHT  ON  WHEELS. 

HAPPY-GO-LUCKY.   Illustrated  by  Charlet  E.  Brock. 
A  SAFETY  MATCH.    With  frontispiece. 
A  MAN'S  MAN.     With  frontispiece. 
THE  RIGHT  STUFF.     With  frontispiece. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  Youc 


"PIP' 

A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 


PIP 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 


BY 


IAN  HAY 


Be,' 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


1917 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE 

"FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .    .    ." 

I.  THE  PHILANTHROPISTS 3 

II.  MR.  POCKLINGTON'S 24 

III.  "HAM"       54 

IV.  PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION       74 

V.   LlNKLATER 108 

VI.  PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE 155 

BOOK  TWO 

THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

VII.  A  CRICKET  WEEK 181 

VIII.  LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND 233 

IX.  THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY:  AN  INTERLUDE 256 

BOOK  THREE 

THE  JOURNEY'S  END 
X.  AN  ANCIENT  GAME 299 

XI.  "NATURAM  FURCA  EXPELLAS  ..." 329 

XII.  "...  TAMEN  USQUE  RECURRET"    .  .  351 


213SS14    ' 


"PIP" 

BOOK  ONE 
"FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .    .    ." 


PIP 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   PHILANTHROPISTS 

IT  was  to  Pipette  that  the  idea  originally  oc- 
curred, but  it  was  upon  Pip  that  parental  retri- 
bution subsequently  fell,  Pipette  being  merely 
dismissed  with  a  caution.  This  clemency  was 
due  chiefly  to  the  intercession  of  Cook,  who 
stated,  in  the  r61e  of  principal  witness,  that  the 
"poor  lamb"  (Pipette)  "could  never  have 
thought  of  such  a  thing  by  herself."  This  in  spite 
of  the  poor  lamb's  indignant  protests  to  the  con- 
trary. In  this  matter,  as  in  many  others,  Cook 
showed  both  personal  bias  and  want  of  judgment; 
for  Pipette  was  as  sharp  as  a  needle,  while  Pip, 
though  a  willing  accomplice  and  a  philosophical 
scapegoat,  was  lacking  in  constructive  ability 
and  organising  power. 

But  we  have  somehow  begun  at  the  end  of  the 
story,  so  must  make  a  fresh  start. 

The  Consulting  Room,  which  was  strictly  out 
of  bounds  (and  consequently  a  favourite  resort  of 
the  children  when  the  big,  silent  man,  who  kissed 
them  twice  a  day,  was  out),  contained  many 


4  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

absorbingly  interesting  and  mysterious  objects, 
whose  uses  Pip  and  Pipette  were  dying  to  know. 
For  instance,  there  was  the  Oven  Door.  It  was 
set  in  the  wall  near  the  fireplace,  miles  up, — 
quite  five  feet,  —  and  was  exactly  like  the  oven 
in  the  kitchen,  except  that  it  was  green  instead  of 
black.  Also,  it  had  a  beautiful  gold  handle.  It 
was  not  hot,  though,  for  one  day  Pip  climbed  on 
a  chair  to  feel;  neither  did  it  open,  for  he  was 
unable  to  turn  the  handle. 

They  had  asked  Mr.  Evans  about  it,  and  he 
had  inf  ormed  them  that  it  was  a  place  to  put  bad 
little  boys  and  girls  in.  But  that  was  on  a  day 
when  Mr.  Evans  was  cross,  having  just  had  words 
with  Cook  about  the  disgraceful  delay  between 
the  fish  and  joint  at  last  night's  dinner.  Pipette, 
therefore,  outwardly  incredulous  but  inwardly 
quaking,  appealed  to  Cook,  and  asked  confi- 
dentially if  the  strange  thing  were  not  an  oven; 
whereupon  Cook  embraced  her  and  presented 
her  with  an  apple,  and  wondered  what  the  little 
precious  would  get  into  her  pore  head  next, 
adding  as  an  afterthought  that  Mr.  Evans  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  himself.  Pipette  was  so  pleased 
with  the  apple  and  the  task  of  conveying  Cook's 
message  to  Mr.  Evans's  pantry  —  this  was  the 
name  of  the  place  where  he  lived;  there  was  a 
delightful  thing  there  called  the  Filter,  with  a 
little  tap  that  you  could  turn  on  if  no  one  was 


THE  PHILANTHROPISTS  5 

looking  —  that  she  quite  forgot  to  ask  what  the 
Oven  Door  really  was;  so  the  mystery  remained 
unsolved  for  many  a  day. 

There  were  other  wonderful  things  lying  about. 
Books  in  plenty  (but  then  books  are  dull  things 
if  you  don't  happen  to  be  able  to  read),  and  two 
or  three  curious  little  articles  like  wooden  trum- 
pets, called  "stuffy scopes."  It  was  impossible  to 
play  tunes  on  these,  though,  and  they  puzzled 
the  children  sorely,  until  one  joyful  day  when 
Pipette  was  taken  with  a  cold  on  her  chest,  and 
Father  —  the  name  of  the  big,  silent  man  who 
kissed  them  twice  a  day  —  took  her  into  the 
Consulting  Room  and  used  one  of  those  very 
instruments  "to  listen  to  my  tummy  wiv,"  as 
she  afterwards  explained  to  the  envious  Pip, 
who  had  not  been  permitted  to  be  present. 

"Did  it  hurt  much?"  inquired  Pip. 

"Not  bewury  much,"  replied  Pipette,  unwilling 
to  throw  away  a  good  chance  of  posing  as  a 
martyr.  "He  putted  one  end  against  his  ear 
and  the  other  against  my  pinny,  and  said,  *  Hold 
your  breflY  and  I  holded  it.  Pip,  I've  thought 
of  a  lovely  game!  Let's  see  who  can  hold  our 
breff  longest." 

This  suggestion  was  adopted,  and  the  new 
game  kept  them  occupied  for  quite  ten  minutes. 
After  that  Pipette  surrendered  unconditionally. 
To  hold  your  tongue  is  bad  enough,  but  to  hold 


6  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

your  breath  as  well,  in  competition  with  a  small, 
silent  boy  with  a  solemn  face,  serious  eyes,  and 
lungs  apparently  of  gutta-percha,  who  seems  to 
suffer  no  inconvenience  from  feats  of  endurance 
that  would  exhaust  a  Red  Indian,  is  more  than 
a  mere  daughter  of  Eve  can  compass. 

They  were  in  the  Consulting  Room  at  the 
time,  Father  having  gone  out,  as  he  always  did 
between  eleven  and  one;  and  the  various  unex- 
plained mysteries  of  that  delightful  apartment, 
which  were  becoming  a  serious  strain  upon 
Pipette's  feminine  curiosity,  once  more  lay  be- 
fore them.  For  the  hundredth  tune  they  made 
the  tour  of  the  room,  gazing,  fingering,  and 
wondering. 

They  merely  sighed  as  they  passed  the  Oven 
Door.  That  mysterious  portal  was  past  all  com- 
prehension. They  had  made  one  last  effort  to 
obtain  first-hand  information  on  the  subject  only 
last  night,  with  highly  unsatisfactory  results. 
They  were  always  taken  to  the  dining-room  at 
half -past  seven  to  say  good-night  to  Father,  who 
to  his  numerous  other  eccentricities  added  that  of 
eating  his  dinner  at  an  hour  when  properly  con- 
stituted people  were  going  to  bed.  (Pip's  rather 
hazy  scheme  of  theology,  imbibed  in  scraps  from 
Cook  and  others,  included  a  private  heaven  of 
his  own  construction,  in  which  at  bedtime  little 
boys,  instead  of  being  hustled  upstairs  by  an 


THE  PHILANTHROPISTS  7 

under-housemaid,  sat  down  to  a  heavy  dinner  of 
several  courses.)  On  this  occasion  the  pair  had 
entered  the  dining-room  bound  by  the  most 
deadly  oaths  known  to  childhood  to  break  down 
their  shyness,  and  ask  once  and  for  all  what  lay 
behind  the  Oven  Door.'  But  alas!  desire  outran 
performance,  and  both  —  all  three,  in  fact  — 
made  a  sorry  mess  of  things.  The  big  man,  al- 
most as  shy  of  them  as  they  were  of  him,  asked 
Pip,  heavily  but  kindly,  how  he  had  spent  the 
afternoon;  not  because  he  wished  to  know,  but 
because  the  question  afforded  a  conversational 
opening.  Pip  replied  politely  that  he  had  been 
down  the  street  posting  a  letter  with  "one  of  the 
girls."  He  used  the  expression  in  all  good  faith: 
his  firm  friend  the  milkman  cried  it  down  the 
area  every  afternoon  in  some  such  form  as, 
"Anything  fresh  to-day,  girls?"  or,  "Well,  girls, 
what  news?"  The  big  man,  however,  frowned, 
and  said,  "  Come,  come,  sir,  no  kitchen  manners 
here,  if  you  please,"  and  turned  to  Pipette,  who, 
with  a  boldness  surprising  to  herself,  was  en- 
deavouring to  climb  on  to  his  knee. 

Having  reached  that  eminence,  Pipette,  as- 
suming a  certain  coaxing  expression  which  she 
had  found  absolutely  infallible  with  Cook,  and 
not  without  a  certain  effect  on  Mr.  Evans  him- 
self, said  rather  tremulously  — 

"Please,  Father,  is  that  oven  door  in  the 


8  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

Kersultin'  Room  reelly  a  oven,  or  is  it  just  — 
just  to  put  bad  little  boys  and  girls  in,  like  what 
Mr.  Evans  says?" 

Mr.  Evans,  who  up  to  this  point  had  been 
standing  in  the  background,  listening  to  the 
conversation  with  an  indulgent  smile,  suddenly 
remembered  that  it  was  tune  to  bring  the  fish  up. 

Her  father  glanced  down  upon  Pipette  curi- 
ously. He  looked  tired  and  worried,  as  West- 
End  physicians  with  enormous  practices  not  in- 
frequently do. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'oven  door'?  And 
what's  all  this  nonsense  about  Mr.  Evans?" 

Pipette  began  to  quail.  This  big  man  was 
cross  about  something,  just  like  Mr.  Evans 
when  he  had  "indergestion."  Her  lip  began  to 
tremble.  •]  ^ 

"I  did  n't  fink  it  would  make  you  angry,"  she 
said  rather  piteously.  "It  was  just  that  big  oven 
door  in  the  Kersultin'  Room.  Me  and  Pip  wanted 
to  know  so  much,  and  there  was  n't  nobody  to 
ask,  exceptin*  Mr. " 

Here  Father,  much  to  Pipette's  surprise  and 
embarrassment,  suddenly  hugged  her  to  his 
breast,  murmuring  the  while  to  himself.  Then 
he  kissed  her  twice,  —  as  a  rule  she  kissed  him 
once,  —  shook  hands  solemnly  with  Pip,  and 
despatched  them  to  bed. 

The  children  had  no  nurse.  The  last  holder  of 


THE  PHILANTHROPISTS  9 

that  position  had  left  soon  after  their  mother's 
death,  and  Cook  had  begged  so  hard  to  be  al- 
lowed to  take  care  of  the  "little  dears"  herself, 
that  Father,  who  was  too  deeply  sunk  hi  the  apa- 
thy of  grief  to  desire  to  haggle  over  questions  of 
domestic  management,  listlessly  agreed.  Since 
then  Pip  and  Pipette  had  been  washed,  dressed, 
fed,  and  bedded  by  a  syndicate  composed  of 
Cook  and  her  myrmidons,  who  brought  them 
up  according  to  their  own  notions  of  respecta- 
bility. Emily,  the  kitchen-maid,  for  instance, 
made  no  objection  to  Pip  stirring  his  tea  with  the 
handle  of  his  knife;  but  what  shocked  her  ideas 
of  etiquette  and  deportment  was  the  fact  that  he 
insisted  on  doing  so  with  his  left  hand.  Somehow 
Pip's  left  hand  was  always  getting  him  into 
trouble.  It  was  so  officious;  it  was  constantly 
usurping  the  duties  and  privileges  of  its  fellow, 
such  as  cleaning  his  teeth,  shaking  hands,  and 
blowing  his  nose,  —  literal  acts  of  gaucherie  that 
distressed  Emily's  genteel  soul  considerably. 

After  the  children  had  gone  Father  sat  staring 
at  his  untasted  dinner.  Occasionally  his  gaze 
travelled  to  the  opposite  end  of  the  table,  where 
some  one  used  to  sit,  —  some  one  who  had  been 
taken  from  him  by  an  inscrutable  Providence 
five  years  before.  Had  she  lived,  Pip  would  not 
have  referred  to  the  kitchen-maid  as  "one  of  the 
girls,"  nor  would  Pipette  be  calling  the  butler 


10          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

"Mr.  Evans."  All  these  years  he  had  been  trying 
to  hide  his  desolation  by  burying  himself  in  his 
work,  with  the  result  that  he  now  found  him- 
self busy,  —  overworked,  in  fact,  —  rich,  and  fa- 
mous, a  man  at  the  head  of  his  profession.  Cui 
bono  ?  His  children,  whom  he  had  promised  his 
dying  Dorothea  to  love  and  cherish,  were  learn- 
ing to  venerate  the  butler  and  to  converse  in  the 
jargon  of  the  scullery! 

So  the  Oven  Door  had  to  remain  an  unsolved 
mystery,  and  Pip  and  Pipette  were  compelled  to 
comfort  themselves  with  the  Talking-Hole.  This 
was  a  most  absorbing  affair,  and,  thank  good- 
ness! it  was  no  mystery. 

The  Talking-Hole  was  carefully  plugged  with 
a  whistle;  and  whenever  a  visitor  came  to  see 
Father,  —  they  came  in  shoals  between  one 
o'clock  and  three,  —  Mr.  Evans  would  uncork  a 
similar  hole  in  the  wall  of  the  hall,  and  after 
blowing  up  it  vigorously,  would  murmur  the 
name  of  the  visitor;  and  his  words,  owing  to  the 
fact  that  the  Talking-Hole  in  the  hall  was  in  some 
mysterious  way  connected  with  the  Talking- 
Hole  in  the  Consulting  Room,  were  conveyed  to 
Father's  ear.  The  conversation  as  a  rule  was  of 
a  formal  and  fragmentary  nature,  limited  on 
Mr.  Evans's  part  to  the  announcement  of  the 
visitor's  name  and  some  such  remark  as  "  Special 
appointment,"  or  "No  appointment,"  and  occa- 


THE  PHILANTHROPISTS  11 

sionally,  "Urgent  case," — always  concluding 
with  "Very  good,  sir."  After  that  Mr.  Evans 
would  conduct  the  visitor  up  the  three  carpeted 
stairs  which  led  to  the  Consulting  Room. 

Pip  and  Pipette  loved  the  Talking-Hole.  It 
was  almost  their  only  toy,  and  it  was  the  more 
precious  to  them  because  they  could  not  use  it 
except  when  Father  was  out  and  Mr.  Evans 
taking  his  afternoon  siesta.  Their  one  child- 
friend,  Tattie  Fowler,  who  was  occasionally 
brought  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  them  when 
her  nurse  had  made  arrangements  to  spend  it 
elsewhere,  was  always  regaled  with  a  full-dress 
performance  whenever  she  came. 

The  method  of  procedure  was  invariably  the 
same.  The  children  knew  every  move  by  heart. 
The  moment  that  Mr.  Evans,  having  closed  the 
front  door  on  Father,  had  closed  his  bedroom 
door  upon  himself,  Pip  would  stalk  with  much 
majesty  into  the  Consulting  Room,  shutting  the 
door  carefully  behind  him. 

After  an  interval  of  about  one  second,  Tattie, 
endeavouring  faithfully  to  imitate  Mr.  Evans's 
stately  tread,  —  have  you  ever  seen  a  kitten  try- 
ing to  walk  like  an  elephant,  reader?  —  would 
approach  the  Talking-Hole  in  the  hall,  uncork 
the  tube,  and  despatch  an  excited  hurricane  on 
its  way  to  the  Consulting  Room.  The  following 
dialogue  would  then  ensue:  — 


12          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

A  gruff  voice  down  the  tube.  Well? 

Tattie  [reading  from  an  imaginary  card].  Mr.  Henry 
Hatkins,  sir!  (This,  by  the  way,  happened  to  be  the 
name  of  Tattle's  nurse's  "young  man.") 

The  Voice.  Any  appointment? 

Tattie.  None,  sir. 

The  Voice.  What's  the  matter  wiv  him? 

Tattie.  Infruenza,  he  thinks,  sir. 

The  Voice.  Send  him  up. 

Tattie.  Very  good,  sir. 

Then  Tattie  would  cork  up  the  tube  and  con- 
duct Pipette,  who  had  been  sitting  patiently  in 
the  Waiting  Room,  up  the  three  stairs  to  the 
Consulting  Room.  Here  she  abruptly  dropped 
the  r61e  of  Mr.  Evans,  and  announced  firmly  — 

"Now,  Pip,  it's  my  turn  to  be  Father!" 

(Tattie  had  no  father  of  her  own,  and  imagined 
that  the  term  merely  implied  a  large,  silent  man 
who  lived  in  a  room  full  of  fascinating  playthings, 
opening  Oven  Doors  and  blowing  down  Talking- 
Holes.) 

After  that  Pip  would  be  the  patient,  Pipette 
Mr.  Evans,  and  Tattie  Father,  and  the  perform- 
ance was  repeated  in  extenso.  Pipette,  as  the 
youngest,  succeeded  to  the  proud  position  of 
"Father"  last  of  all. 

Each  of  them  played  the  leading  part  in  differ- 
ent fashion.  Pip,  enjoying  every  moment  of  his 
impersonation,  always  sat  solemnly  in  the  big 
swivel-chair  at  the  table  until  the  whistle  blew, 


THE  PHILANTHROPISTS  13 

when  he  would  lounge  across  to  the  Talking- 
Hole  and  conduct  the  conversation  as  deliber- 
ately as  possible.  Pipette,  on  the  other  hand, 
possessed  none  of  this  artistic  restraint,  and  was 
always  standing  on  a  chair,  with  her  small  ear 
ecstatically  pressed  against  the  mouth  of  the 
tube,  by  the  time  that  Pip,  in  the  character  of 
Mr.  Evans,  was  ready  to  converse  with  her. 
Consequently  his  withering  blast,  when  it  ar- 
rived, impinged  straight  upon  Pipette's  ear- 
drum, frequently  knocking  her  off  her  chair  and 
invariably  dulling  her  hearing  for  the  afternoon. 
Considerable  freedom,  too,  was  permitted  in 
the  interpretation  of  the  part  of  Mr.  Evans, 
especially  in  describing  the  patients'  symptoms. 
In  this  respect  the  children  were  compelled  to 
draw  chiefly  upon  their  own  somewhat  slight  ex- 
perience; for  Mr.  Evans,  though  he  invariably 
gave  the  patients'  names,  was  not  as  a  rule  en- 
trusted with  their  complaints  as  well.  Conse- 
quently the  maladies  which  were  shrieked  up  the 
tube  so  gleefully  were  those  indigenous  to  small 
children,  cooks,  and  the  like.  When  introduced 
by  Pipette,  the  patient  was  usually  suffering  from 
"palpurtations,  that  bad!"  (an  echo  of  Cook); 
Tattie,  whose  pretty  and  interesting  mamma 
affected  fashionable  complaints,  would  diagnose 
the  case  in  hand  as  "nerves  all  in  a  jangle 
again";  while  Pip,  who  was  lacking  in  imagina- 


14          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

tion  but  possessed  a  retentive  memory,  invari- 
ably announced,  with  feeling,  that  the  visitor 
was  a  victim  of  a  "fearful  pain  in  his  (or  her) 
tummy!" 

Near  the  Talking-Hole,  on  a  small  table,  stood 
"The  Terriphone."  This,  they  gathered,  was  a 
sort  of  long-distance  talking-hole.  You  turned 
a  little  handle,  and,  taking  a  queer,  cup-shaped 
arrangement  off  a  hook,  conversed  affably 
through  it  with  unseen  people,  situated  some- 
where at  the  back  of  beyond.  The  children  had 
seen  Mr.  Evans  use  it  for  sending  messages  to 
Father  via  Mr.  Pipes.  Mr.  Pipes  was  a  great 
friend  of  Pipette's.  In  the  first  place,  he  wore  a 
uniform,  which  always  appeals  to  the  feminine 
mind.  Then  he  lived  in  a  fascinating  little  glass 
house  at  the  gates  of  a  great  building  called  "The 
Orspital,"  where  Father  apparently  spent  much 
of  his  time.  In  the  courtyard  inside  the  gates 
bareheaded  young  men  passed  to  and  fro,  dis- 
coursing learnedly  of  mysterious  things  called 
"Ops."  Mr.  Pipes  wore  two  medals  on  his  uni- 
form, but  beyond  these  there  was  nothing  very 
attractive  in  the  glass  house  excepting  the  Terri- 
phone, which  stood  on  a  little  ledge  beside  the 
pigeon-hole.  Mr.  Pipes,  being  attached  to  Emily, 
the  under-housemaid,  was  always  glad  to  see  the 
children  when  it  was  that  engaging  damsel's  turn 
to  take  them  for  a  walk.  From  him  they  learned 


THE  PHILANTHROPISTS  15 

one  day  that  his  Terriphone  communicated  with 
the  one  at  home,  quite  three  streets  away. 

"It  must  be  a  long  hgle,"  remarked  Pip  re- 
flectively to  his  sister. 

The  conversation  then  turned  upon  the 
weather.  Mr.  Pipes  announced  to  the  sympa- 
thetic Emily  that,  as  a  result  of  having  to  sit  all 
day  in  a  blooming  greenhouse,  his  feet  were 
slowly  turning  to  ice.  The  authorities  of  the 
Orspital,  he  added  bitterly,  declined  to  allow  him 
a  fire,  alleging  that  an  oil-stove  was  sufficient  for 
his  needs. 

"What  a  shime!"  said  pretty  Emily. 

"Something  crool!"  exclaimed  sympathetic 
Pipette.  (She  had  picked  up  this  expression  from 
Susan,  the  kitchen-maid,  who  was  regarded  by 
her  colleagues  as  being  somewhat  "common  in 
her  talk.") 

"Pore  devil!"  remarked  Pip  dispassionately. 

"Master  Pip!"  cried  the  scandalised  Emily, 
blushing  in  a  manner  which  Mr.  Pipes  thought 
most  becoming. 

Pip,  who  had  just  gathered  this  pearl  of  speech 
from  the  lips  of  one  of  the  hatless  young  gentle- 
men who  talked  of  "Ops,"  turned  his  steady  and 
inscrutable  gaze  upon  Emily,  beneath  which  that 
damsel's  fetching  frown  faded,  as  it  always  did, 
into  an  uneasy  smirk. 

"There  is  something  about  that  child,"  she 


16          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

once  confided  to  Cook,  "that  makes  me  feel  as 
weak  as  water.  Looks  at  you  as  though  your  'air 
was  coming  down  on  your  face  smudged.  Says 
no  think,  but  he's  a  masterful  one.  Be  a  terror 
some  day!" 

Meanwhile  Pipette,  in  whose  charitable  little 
soul  a  new  and  splendid  scheme  of  outdoor  relief 
had  just  sprung  into  being,  asked,  in  a  tone  of 
suppressed  excitement  — 

"Mr.  Pipes,  please,  does  your  Terriphone  go 
straight  to  our  house?" 

"As  straight  as  straight,  me  lady,"  replied  Mr. 
Pipes,  who  affected  an  easy  jocularity  when  con- 
versing with  Pipette. 

"Ooh!"  Pipette  turned  to  her  brother. 

"Pip,  amind  me  to  tell  you  somethin'  when 
we  get  home." 

Pip  turned  a  cold  glance  upon  her. 

"You'll  tell  me  all  about  it  on  the  way  there, 
I  expect." 

"I  worCt  /"  cried  Pipette  indignantly. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will.  Women  can't  keep  nothin' 
to  then-selves." 

This  pronouncement,  delivered  in  Mr.  Evans's 
most  impressive  manner,  roused  Emily  and  Mr. 
Pipes  to  unseemly  mirth,  and  nearly  reduced 
Pipette  to  tears.  Mr.  Pipes  remarked  that  Pip 
was  a  "caution,"  while  Emily  summed  him  up 
as  a  "cure."  Shortly  after  that,  Emily  and  Mr. 


THE  PHILANTHROPISTS  17 

Pipes  having  made  a  now  familiar  reference  to 
"the  same  old  spot  at  half -past  four  on  Sunday," 
the  visit  terminated  with  the  usual  expressions  of 
good-will,  and  the  children  were  taken  home  to 
tea. 

Pipette's  offended  dignity  held  out  till  next 
morning,  when,  as  soon  as  the  banging  of  the 
front  door  announced  that  Father  had  gone  off 
in  his  brougham  for  his  daily  round,  she  proposed 
a  visit  to  the  Consulting  Room. 

"In  the  morning?  What  for?"  said  Pip. 

Pipette  was  positively  heaving  with  suppressed 
excitement. 

"You  go  there  and  wait,"  she  said,  "and  I'll 
run  down  to  Cook  a  minute,  and  then  we'll  — 
no,  I  won't  tell  you  yet!  Go  on!" 

Fearful  of  letting  her  precious  secret  escape 
too  soon,  she  gave  Pip  a  push  in  the  direction  of 
the  Consulting  Room  and  danced  off  to  the 
kitchen,  leaving  that  impassive  philosopher  to 
ruminate  upon  the  volatile  temperament  of  the 
female  sex.  However,  he  departed  as  bidden,  and 
amused  himself  by  sitting  in  the  swing-chair,  and 
endeavouring  without  success,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  to  play  a  tune  on  a  stethoscope. 

Presently  Pipette  returned,  carrying  two  little 
basins  of  the  soup  which  usually  served  to  span 
the  yawning  gulf  between  their  breakfast  and 
dinner. 


18          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

Pip  took  his  soup,  and  began  to  drink  it. 

"Stop  a  minute,  Pip!'*  screamed  Pipette. 

Pip  put  down  his  basin. 

"Well,  what  is  it  now?"  he  remarked. 

Pipette  at  last  unfolded  her  plan. 

"Pip,"  she  began  a  little  shyly,  —  like  all  in- 
ventors, she  dreaded  criticism,  —  "you  'member 
poor  Mr.  Pipes  saying  how  cold  he  was?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  let's  send  him  this  nice  hot  soup,  Pip, 
—  by  Terriphone!" 

The  last  words  came  with  a  rush.  Then 
Pipette,  heaving  such  a  sigh  as  Sinbad  must  have 
emitted  when  he  had  got  rid  of  the  Old  Man  of 
the  Sea,  awaited  her  brother's  reply. 

Pip  smiled  indulgently. 

"Silly  kid!"  he  remarked. 

Pipette  had  expected  this. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "but,  Pip,  wouldn't  it  be 
loverly  to  do  it?" 

Pip's  practical  mind  began  to  evolve  difficul- 
ties. 

"How  are  you  goin'  to  do  it?" 

Pipette  projected  upon  him  a  glance  in  which 
artless  surprise,  deferential  admiration,  and  sim- 
ple faith  were  exquisitely  mingled,  —  a  glance 
which,  in  after  years,  her  husband  once  ruefully 
described  as  "good  for  a  ten-pound  note  at  any 
hour  of  the  day,"  —  and  replied  simply  — 


THE  PHILANTHROPISTS  19 

"I  thought  you  would  manage  all  that,  Pip. 
You're  so  bewwy  clever!" 

"All  right,"  said  Pip.  "Let's  do  it." 

Thus  it  is  that  women  make  fools  of  the 
strongest  men. 

They  carried  their  soup  carefully  over  to  the 
little  table  beside  the  telephone. 

"I  say,"  said  Pip  suddenly,  "is  he  to  have 
both  basins?" 

Pipette's  bounteous  nature  would  gladly  have 
sacrificed  both  Pip's  lunch  and  her  own,  but  she 
thought  it  wiser  to  concede  this  point. 

"No;  one  will  do,  I  fink,"  she  replied. 

"All  right.    You  can  drink  half  mine,"  said 


They  gravely  drank  Pip's  soup,  turn  about, 
and  then  applied  themselves  to  the  matter  in 
hand. 

First,  they  lifted  the  receiver  of  the  telephone 
from  its  rest  and  surveyed  it  doubtfully.  There 
was  a  cup-shaped  receptacle  at  one  end  into 
which  soup  could  easily  be  poured,  but  the 
"tube"  which  connected  it  to  the  instrument 
was  of  very  meagre  dimensions. 

"Are  you  sure  there's  a  pipe  all  the  way?" 
inquired  Pip  doubtfully. 

"Certain.  It's  just  the  same  as  the  Talking- 
Hole,  only  thinner.  And  the  Talking-Hole  has 
got  a  pipe  all  the  way,  'cause  don't  you  remember 


20  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

you  put  a  glass  marble  in  one  day  when  I  told 
you  not  to,  and  it  fell  out  in  the  hall?" 

Pip's  doubts  were  not  quite  satisfied  even  with 
this  brilliant  parallel. 

"It'll  take  a  long  time  to  get  through,"  he 
said.  He  was  fingering  the  silk-coated  wire. 
"This  pipe's  awful  thin.  A  marble  would  never 
get  down  it." 

"No,  but  the  soup  will  twickle  down  all  right," 
said  Pipette,  whose  mind,  busy  with  works  .of 
mercy,  soared  far  above  these  utilitarian  details. 
(In  later  years  she  was  a  confirmed  bazaar 
organiser.) 

"We'll  ring  and  tell  him  first,  shall  we?" 
suggested  Pip. 

"Yes,  let's!"  murmured  Pipette  joyfully. 

She  turned  the  call- handle,  and  Pip  held  the 
receiver,  just  as  he  had  seen  Mr.  Evans  do.  After 
a  decent  interval  he  remarked  into  the  cup  — 

"Are  you  there,  Mr.  Pipes?  This  is  us." 

This  highly  illuminating  statement  met  with 
no  response. 

"I  suppose  he  can  hear  you,"  said  Pipette 
anxiously. 

"Oh,  yes.  I'm  talkin*  just  as  loud  as  Mr. 
Evans  does." 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  able  to  hear  him,  then?" 

"I  expect  so.  But  it's  a  long  way.  Ring  again." 

This  time,  in  turning  the  call-handle,  Pipette 


THE  PHILANTHROPISTS  21 

accidentally  placed  her  hand  on  the  receiver- 
hook,  with  the  result  that  she  actually  rang  up 
the  Exchange  Office. 

Presently  a  voice  inquired  brusquely  of  Pip 
what  he  wanted.  His  reply  was  a  delighted  yell, 
and  an  announcement  to  Mr.  Pipes  that  he  had 
something  for  him.  Further  revelations  were 
frustrated  by  Pipette,  who  tore  the  receiver  from 
his  grasp,  and,  holding  her  hand  over  the  open- 
ing to  prevent  eavesdropping  on  the  part  of  the 
beneficiaire,  whispered  excitedly  in  his  ear  — 

"Don't  tell  him  any  more!  We'll  just  pour 
it  in  now,  and  give  him  such  a  surprise!" 

Consequently  the  young  lady  in  the  Exchange 
Office  was  soon  compelled  to  relinquish  her 
languid  efforts  to  find  out  what  No.  015273 
really  wanted,  and  incontinently  switched  him 
off ,  recking  little  of  the  way  in  which  two  small 
philanthropists  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire 
were  treating  the  property  of  the  National 
Telephone  Company. 

Very  carefully  Pip  poured  the  soup  into  the 
cup-shaped  receiver  of  the  telephone,  which 
Pipette  held  as  steadily  as  her  excitement  would 
permit. 

From  the  first  it  became  obvious  that  soup- 
delivery  by  telephone  was  going  to  be  a  slow 
business,  for  the  cup  transmitted  the  generous 
fluid  most  reluctantly. 


22          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  ...  . 

"It's  such  a  very  thin  pipe,"  they  explained 
to  each  other  hopefully. 

At  length  Pip  remarked  — 

"I  should  think  some  of  it  had  got  there  by 
now." 

"Not  bewwy  much,  I  don't  fink,"  said  Pipette; 
"this  handle  thing's  still  pretty  full." 

"But  the  basin's  nearly  empty,"  said  Pip. 
"The  stuff  must  have  gone  somewhere." 

"Some  of  it  has  gone  on  the  floor,"  said  Pipette 
truthfully. 

At  this  moment  the  clock  struck  one. 

"Father  will  be  in  soon,"  said  Pip.  "We'd 
better  wipe  up." 

They  propped  the  telephone  receiver  on  the 
little  table  between  the  directory  and  a  book- 
stand, and  cleared  up  the  mess  on  the  floor  with 
a  handkerchief  —  Pipette's.  As  they  finished 
they  heard  the  brougham  drive  up. 

"It  is  n't  nearly  all  gone,"  said  Pip  gloomily, 
peering  into  the  receiver.  "If  we  hang  it  up  on 
its  hook  the  stuff  will  all  fall  out.  Let 's  leave  it 
like  it  is.  Father  does  n't  never  use  the  Terri- 
phone  till  after  lunch,  and  it  will  be  all  gone  by 
then.  Come  on,  Pipette." 

The  two  Samaritans  turned  their  backs  upon 
the  telephone  and  stole  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
that  sorely  tried  instrument  to  digest  its  unac- 
customed luncheon  as  best  it  might. 


THE  PHILANTHROPISTS  23 

It  was  Mr.  Evans  who  suffered  most.  He  was 
sent  into  the  Consulting  Room  just  before  dinner 
to  telephone  a  message  to  a  patient.  The  tele- 
phone stood  in  a  dark  corner,  and  the  gas  in  the 
room  was  turned  low.  Mr.  Evans  was  surprised 
to  find  that  the  receiver,  instead  of  hanging  on 
its  hook,  was  lying  on  the  little  table,  carefully 
propped  between  the  directory  and  a  bookstand. 

On  lifting  it  up  he  was  surprised  by  an  un- 
wonted feeling  of  stickiness;  but  when  he  held 
the  instrument  to  the  light,  the  reason  revealed 
itself  to  him  immediately  in  the  form  of  a  dollop 
of  congealed  chicken-broth,  nicely  rounded  to  the 
shape  of  the  cup,  which  shot  from  its  resting- 
place,  with  a  clammy  thud,  on  to  his  clean  shirt- 
front,  and  then  proceeded  to  slide  rapidly  down 
inside  his  dress  waistcoat,  leaving  a  snail-like 
track,  dotted  with  grains  of  rice,  behind  it. 

Pip  was  sent  supperless  to  bed,  where  Pipette, 
completely  broken  down  by  remorse  and  sisterly 
affection,  voluntarily  joined  him  not  much  later. 
The  following  week  they  were  sent  to  school. 


CHAPTER  H 

MR.  POCKLINGTON'S 

So  Pip  and  Pipette  went  to  school,  and  life  in 
its  entirety  lay  at  their  feet. 

Hitherto  the  social  circle  in  which  they  moved 
had  been  limited  on  the  male  side  to  Father,  Mr. 
Evans,  and  Mr.  Pipes,  together  with  the  milk- 
man, the  lamplighter,  and  a  few  more  nodding 
acquaintances;  and  on  the  female  to  Tattie 
Fowler,  Cook,  and  a  long  line  of  housemaids. 
The  children  could  neither  read  nor  write;  the 
fact  that  they  possessed  immortal  souls  was 
practically  unrevealed  to  them;  and  their  reli- 
gious exercises  were  limited  to  a  single  stereo- 
typed prayer,  imparted  by  Cook,  and  per- 
functorily delivered  night  and  morning  by  the 
children,  at  the  bidding  of  the  housemaid  in 
charge,  to  a  mysterious  Power  whose  sole  func- 
tion, so  far  as  they  could  gather,  was  to  keep  an 
eye  upon  them  during  their  attendant's  frequent 
nights-out,  and  to  report  delinquencies  (by  some 
occult  means)  on  her  return. 

Of  the  ordinary  usages  of  polite  society  they 
knew  little  or  nothing.  To  Pip  and  Pipette 
etiquette  and  deportment  were  summed  up  in 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  25 

the  following  nursery  laws,  as  amended  by  the 
Kitchen:  — 

I.  Girls,  owing  to  some  mysterious  infirmity  which 
is  never  apparent,  and  for  which  they  are  not  re- 
sponsible, must  be  helped  first  to  everything. 

II.  A  boy  must  on  no  account  punch  a  girl,  even 
though  she  is  older  and  bigger  than  himself.    (For 
reason,  see  I.) 

III.  A  girl  must  not  scratch  a  boy.  Not  that  the 
boy  matters,  but  it  is  unladylike. 

IV.  Real  men  do  not  play  with  dolls.     (However, 
you  may  pretend  to  be  a  doctor,  and  administer 
medicine,  without  loss  of  dignity.) 

V.  Real  ladies  do  not  climb  the  trees  in  the  garden 
in  the  Square.    (But  you  can  get  over  this  difficulty 
by  pretending  to  be  a  boy  or  a  monkey  for  hah*  an 
hour.) 

VI.  Girls  never  have  dirty  hands  —  only  boys. 
(For  solution  of  this  difficulty  see  note  on  V.) 

VH.  You  must  never  tell  tales.  Girls  must  be 
specially  careful  about  this,  not  because  they  are 
more  prone  to  do  so,  but  because  boys  think  they 
are. 

VEIL  Real  men  never  kiss  girls,  but  they  may 
sometimes  permit  girls  to  kiss  them. 

IX.  You  must  eat  up  your  bread-and-butter  before 
you  have  any  cake.  (This  rule  holds  good,  they  found 
out  later,  all  through  life.) 


26          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

X.  Do  not  blow  upon  your  tea  to  cool  it:  this  is 
very  vulgar.  Pour  it  into  your  saucer  instead. 

Clearly  it  was  high  time  they  went  to  school, 
and  Father,  who  had  had  vague  thoughts  for 
some  time  about  "procuring  a  tutor"  for  Pip, 
finally  made  up  his  mind,  and  despatched  both 
children  one  morning  in  the  brougham  to  Mr. 
Pocklington's. 

The  school  was  a  comfortable-looking  building, 
standing  inside  high  walls  in  a  secluded  corner  of 
Regent's  Park.  On  the  gate  shone  a  large  brass 
plate  bearing  the  inscription  — 


WENTWORTH  HOUSE  SCHOOL 

AND 
KINDERGARTEN. 


MR.  POCKLINGTON. 

THE  MISSES  POCKLIXGTON. 


The  children  could  not  read  this,  but  Mr. 
Evans,  who  accompanied  them  in  the  brougham 
on  the  first  morning,  kindly  consented  to  do  so, 
his  efforts  to  pronounce  the  word  "Kindergar- 
ten" (an  enterprise  upon  which  he  embarked 
before  realising  that  he  might  with  perfect  safety 
have  left  it  out  altogether)  pleasantly  beguiling 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  27 

the  time  until  the  gate  was  opened  by  a  boy  in 
buttons. 

Pip  and  Pipette  found  themselves  in  a  cheerful- 
looking  hall,  larger  and  brighter  than  that  at 
home,  and  stood  staring  with  solemn  eyes  at  the 
unwonted  objects  around  them.  From  a  room 
on  then-  right  came  a  subdued  hum,  and  upstairs 
they  could  hear  juvenile  voices  singing  in  chorus. 
They  were  put  to  wait  in  a  small  room. 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  an  old  gentle- 
man with  white  whiskers  and  a  black  velveteen 
jacket  trotted  in.  Mr.  Evans  bowed  respect- 
fully. 

"The  doctor's  compliments,  sir,  and  I  was  to 
inquire  what  time  the  young  lady  and  gentleman 
was  to  be  sent  for?"  he  said. 

"  Our  morning  hours,"  replied  Mr.  Pocklington 
with  a  precise  air,  "are  from  nine-thirty  till 
twelve-thirty.  At  twelve-thirty  we  take  exer- 
cise in  the  playground.  Should  the  weather  be 
inclement  we  adjourn  to  the  Gymnasium. 
Luncheon  is  served  at  one-thirty,  and  we  resume 
our  studies  at  two-thirty.  We  desist  from  our 
labours  at  four." 

Mr.  Evans  having  made  a  dignified  exit,  the 
children,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  found 
themselves  alone  in  the  world,  and  suddenly 
realised  that  the  world  was  very  big  and  they 
were  very  small.  Pipette  was  at  once  handed 


28          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

over  to  a  lady  called  Miss  Arabella,  while  Pip 
was  escorted  by  Mr.  Pocklington  to  the  chang- 
ing-room,  where  he  was  given  a  peg  for  his  coat, 
a  peg  for  his  cap,  a  locker  for  his  boots,  and  a 
wash-hand  basin  for  his  ablutions  (everything 
carefully  labelled  and  numbered) ,  and  was  other- 
wise universally  equipped  for  the  battle  of  life. 
Then  he  was  taken  into  Mr.  Pocklington's  pri- 
vate sitting-room,  whence,  after  a  brief  but  all  too 
adequate  inquiry  into  his  attainments,  he  was 
unhesitatingly  relegated  to  the  lowest  class  in  the 
school,  where  he  found  Pipette  already  installed 
at  the  bottom  of  the  bottom  bench.  Here  we  will 
leave  them  for  a  time,  dumbly  gazing  at  the 
opening  page  of  a  new  reading-book,  whereon 
appears  the  presentment  of  what  they  have 
hitherto  regarded  as  a  donkey,  but  which  three 
large  printed  letters  at  the  foot  of  the  page  in- 
form them  must  henceforth  be  called  an  A-S-S. 

Mr.  Pocklington  had  been  intended  by  nature 
for  an  old  maid.  He  was  an  elderly  faddist  of  a 
rather  tiresome  type,  with  theories  upon  every 
possible  subject,  from  cellular  underclothing  to 
the  higher  education  of  women.  He  was  a 
widower,  and  was  assisted  in  the  management 
of  the  school  by  his  three  daughters  —  Miss 
Mary,  Miss  Arabella,  and  Miss  Amelia. 

The  daily  routine  of  Wentworth  House  School 
was  marked  by  an  Old-World  precision  and  for- 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  29 

mality  which  adults  might  have  found  a  trifle 
irksome;  but  it  did  the  children  no  particular 
harm  beyond  making  them  slightly  priggish  in 
their  manners,  and  no  particular  good  beyond 
instilling  into  them  a  few  habits  of  order  and 
method. 

The  day  began  at  twenty  minutes  past  nine 
with  "whistle-in."  The  "monitor"  for  the  week 

—  a  patriarch  of  ten  or  eleven  —  appeared  at 
the  side  door,  which  gave  on  to  the  playground, 
and  blew  a  resonant  blast  on  a  silver  whistle. 
Followed  a  scramble  in  the  dressing-rooms,  while 
boys  and  girls  changed  their  boots  for  slippers. 
At  three  minutes  to  the  half -hour  the  monitor, 
having  hung  the  whistle  on  its  proper  peg  and 
armed  him-  (or  her-)   self  with  a  dinner-bell, 
clanged  out  a  summons  to  "line  up."  Thereupon 
the  pupils  of  Wentworth  House  School  formed 
a  double  queue  along  the  passage,  the  eldest  boy 
with  the  eldest  girl,  and  so  on,  —  Mr.  Pockling- 
ton  believed  in  mingling  the  sexes  thoroughly:  it 
taught  girls  not  to  whisper  and  giggle,  and  gave 
boys  ease  of  manner  in  the  presence  of  females, 

—  and  at  the  stroke  of  nine-thirty,  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  an  ear-splitting  fantasia  on  the  bell, 
the  animals  marched  arm-in-arm  into  the  ark  (as 
represented   by  the  large   schoolroom),   where 
Noah  (Mr.  Pocklington) ,  supported  by  Shem, 
Ham,  and  Japheth  (Amazonian  Miss  Mary,  shy 


30          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

and  retiring  Miss  Arabella,  and  pretty  and 
frivolous  Miss  Amelia)  stood  ready  to  take  roll- 
call. 

Roll-call  at  Wentworth  House  was  an  all- 
embracing  function.  Besides  answering  their 
names,  pupils  were  required  to  state  whether 
they  required  "lunch"  at  the  interval,  and  to 
announce  the  name  of  any  library  books  that 
they  might  be  borrowing  or  returning.  Parental 
petitions  and  ultimatums  were  also  delivered  at 
this  time.  As  might  have  been  expected  in  such 
an  establishment,  all  communications  had  to  be 
couched  in  elegant  and  suitable  phraseology  of 
Mr.  Pocklington's  own  composition.  Conse- 
quently roll-call  was  a  somewhat  protracted 
function.  As  a  rule  the  performance  consisted  of 
a  series  of  conversations  of  the  following  type:  — • 

Mr.  Pocklington.  Reginald! 

A  high  squeaky  Voice.  Present,  sir.  I  wish  to  take 
a  glass  of  milk  during  the  interval,  and  I  am  returning 
"The  Young  Carthaginian,"  thanking  you  for  the 
loan-of-the-same. 

Or- 

Mr.  Pocklington.  Beatrice! 

A  rather  breathless  little  Voice.  Present,  sir.  I  wish 
to  take  a  glass  of  milk  and  a  bun  [very  emphatic  this] 
durin'  the  interval,  and  I  propose,  with  your  permis- 
sion, to  borrow  this  copy  of  "Carrots  Just  a  Little 
Boy";  and,  please,  I've  got  a  note  from  mum  —  I 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  31 

mean  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  letter  from  my  mother  ask- 
ing for  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  —  to  excuse  my  not 
havin'  done  all  my  home  work,  'cos  I  forgot  — 

Mr.  Pocklington.  Beatrice! 

The  R.  B.  L.  V.  I  mean  'cos  I  neglected  [there  was 
no  such  word  as  "forget"  in  Mr.  Pocklington's  cur- 
riculum] to  take  the  book  home.  And,  please,  mum 
—  my  mother  would  have  written  to  you  by  post  last 
night,  only  she  f org —  neglected  to  do  it  till  it  was 
too  late. 

And  Beatrice,  having  unburdened  herself  of 
a  task  which  has  been  clouding  her  small  horizon 
ever  since  breakfast,  sits  down  with  a  sigh  of 
intense  relief. 

On  the  first  morning  after  their  arrival,  Mr. 
Pocklington,  having  called  out  the  last  name  and 
registered  the  last  glass  of  milk,  drew  the  atten- 
tion of  the  school  to  Pip  and  Pipette. 

"You  have  to  welcome  two  fresh  companions 
this  morning,"  he  said.  "I  will  enter  their 
names  on  the  register,  and  will  then  read  them 
aloud  to  you,  in  order  that  you  may  know  how 
to  address  your  new  friends." 

Turning  to  Pip,  Mr.  Pocklington  asked  his 
name. 

"Pip." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Pocklington  testily.  "  Your 
first  baptismal  name,  boy!" 

Pip,  to  whom  the  existence  of  baptismal  names 


32  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

was  now  revealed  for  the  first  time,  merely 
turned  extremely  red  and  shook  his  head. 

"We  do  not  countenance  childish  nicknames 
here,"  said  Mr.  Pocklington  grandly.  "What  is 
your  Christian  name,  boy?'* 

Pip,  to  whom  Christian  and  baptismal  names 
were  an  equal  mystery,  continued  to  sit  mute, 
glaring  the  while  in  a  most  disconcerting  fashion 
at  poor  Miss  Arabella,  who  happened  to  sit  op- 
posite to  him. 

Mr.  Pocklington  turned  impatiently  to  Pipette. 

"What  is  your  brother's  name?" 

"Please,  it's  just  Pip,"  replied  Pipette  plain- 
tively, groping  for  Pip's  hand  under  the  desk. 
"He  has  n't  got  any  other  name,  I  don't  fink.'' 

"Perhaps  it  is  Philip,"  suggested  pretty  Miss 
Amelia.  "I  believe" —with  a  little  blush  — 
"that  'Pip'  is  occasionally  used  as  an  abbrevia- 
tion for  that  name.  Is  your  name  Philip,  little 
boy?"  she  asked,  leaning  forward  to  Pip,  with  a 
glance  which  he  would  have  valued  considerably 
more  if  he  had  been  ten  years  older. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Pip. 

"I  think  it  must  be  Philip,"  said  Miss  Amelia, 
turning  to  her  father. 

So  Pip  was  inscribed  on  the  roll  as  Philip, 
which,  as  it  happened,  was  his  real  name.  (By 
the  way,  his  surname  was  Wilmot.) 

"Now,  your  first  baptismal  name,  little  girl?'* 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  33 

said  Mr.  Pocklington  briskly,  turning  to  Pipette. 

"Please,  it's  Pipette,"  she  replied  apprehen- 
sively. 

Her  fears  were  not  ungrounded.  The  school 
began  to  titter. 

"Pipette?  My  dear,  that  is  a  quite  impossible 
name.  A  pipette  is  a  small  glass  instrument  em- 
ployed in  practical  chemistry.  Surely  you  have 
some  proper  baptismal  name!  Perhaps  you  can 
suggest  a  solution  again,"  he  added,  turning  to 
Miss  Amelia. 

No,  Miss  Amelia  could  offer  no  suggestion. 
Her  forte,  it  appeared,  was  gentlemen's  names. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Pipette's  name,  as  ascer- 
tained by  reference  to  Father  by  post  that 
night,  was  Dorothea,  and  she  had  been  laugh- 
ingly christened  "Pipette"  by  her  mother,  be- 
cause her  father,  when  summoned  from  the 
laboratory  to  view  his  newly  born  daughter, 
had  arrived  holding  a  pipette  in  his  hand. 

So  Pip  and  Pipette,  much  to  their  surprise  and 
indignation,  found  themselves  addressed  as  Philip 
and  Dorothea  respectively,  and  as  such  joined  in 
the  pursuit  of  knowledge  in  company  with  a  mot- 
ley crew  of  Arthurs,  Reginalds,  Ermyntrudes, 
Winifreds,  and  the  like.  Surnames  were  not  em- 
ployed in  the  school.  If  two  children  possessed 
the  same  Christian  name  they  were  distinguished 
by  the  addition  of  any  other  sub-title  they  hap- 


34  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

pened  to  possess.  Three  unfortunate  youths,  for 
instance,  were  addressed  respectively  as  John 
Augustus,  John  William,  and  John  Evelyn. 

Things  at  Wentworth  House  School  move  in 
a  stereotyped  circle,  and  Pip  and  Pipette  soon 
became  familiar  with  the  curriculum.  There  were 
three  classes,  they  found.  The  First  Class,  the 
veterans,  nearly  old  enough  to  go  to  a  preparatory 
school,  dwelt  in  a  stuffy  apartment  called  "The 
Study."  Their  learning  was  profound,  for  they  were 
taught  a  mysterious  language  called  Latin,  and  an- 
other, even  more  mysterious,  called  "  Alzeber  "  (or 
something  like  that).  The  Second  Class,  con- 
ducted by  Miss  Mary  —  formidable,  but  a  good 
sort  —  in  a  corner  of  the  schoolroom,  did  not  fly 
so  high.  They  studied  history  and  geography, 
and  were  addicted  to  a  fearsome  form  of  parlour- 
game  called  "Mentalarithmetic,"  which  involved 
much  shrieking  of  answers  to  highly  impossible 
questions  about  equally  dividing  seventeen  ap- 
ples among  five  boys. 

Pip  and  Pipette  occupied  a  humble  position  in 
the  Third  Class,  where  they  soon  developed  a 
fervent  admiration  for  pretty  Miss  Amelia,  who 
was  always  smiling,  always  daintily  dressed,  and 
charmingly  inaccurate  and  casual. 

On  Thursday  afternoons  the  whole  school  as- 
sembled in  the  Music  Room.  Here  faded  Miss 
Arabella  thumped  mechanically  on  the  piano, 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  35 

while  the  pupils  of  Wentworth  House  School 
chanted  an  inexplicable  and  interminable  ditty 
entitled  "Doh-ray-me-fah."  The  words  of  this 
canticle  were  printed  on  a  canvas  sheet  upon 
the  wall,  and  the  method  of  inculcation  was 
somewhat  peculiar.  Mr.  Pocklington,  taking  his 
stand  beside  the  sheet,  would  lay  the  tip  of 
his  little  white  wand  upon  the  word  "Doh" 
printed  at  the  bottom.  Miss  Arabella  would 
strike  a  note  upon  the  piano,  and  the  school 
would  reproduce  the  same  with  no  uncertain 
sound,  sustaining  it  by  one  prolonged  howl  until 
the  white  wand  slid  up  to  "Ray,"  an  example 
which  the  vocalists  would  attempt  to  follow  to 
the  best  of  their  ability,  and  with  varying  de- 
grees of  success.  Having  rallied  and  concen- 
trated his  forces  on  "Ray,"  Mr.  Pocklington 
would  advance  to  "Me,"  and  then  to  "Fah,"  the 
effects  achieved  by  the  elder  male  choristers, 
whose  voices  were  reaching  the  cracking  stage, 
as  the  scale  approached  the  topmost  "Doh," 
being  as  surprising  as  they  were  various. 

The  hour  always  concluded  with  a  sort  of 
musical  steeplechase.  The  white  wand  would 
skip  incontinently  from  Doh  to  Fah,  and  from 
Me  to  Soh,  the  singers  following  after  —  faint 
yet  pursuing.  At  the  end  of  three  minutes,  the 
field  having  tailed  out,  so  to  speak,  every  note 
in  the  gamut  was  being  sung,  fortissimo,  by  at 


36  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

least  one  member  of  the  choir,  and  the  total 
effect  was  more  suggestive  of  a  home  for  lost 
dogs  than  an  academy  for  the  sons  and  daugh- 
ters of  gentlemen. 

Our  friends  enjoyed  this  diversion  hugely. 
Pipette,  who  could  carol  like  a  lark,  hopped 
from  note  to  note  with  an  agility  only  equalled 
by  that  of  the  white  wand  itself.  Pip,  who  had 
no  music  in  his  soul,  adopted  a  different  method 
of  procedure.  Selecting  a  note  well  within  his 
compass,  he  would  stick  to  it  with  characteristic 
thoroughness  and  a  gradually  blackening  coun- 
tenance, until  a  final  nourish  from  the  white 
wand  intimated  to  all  and  sundry  that  this 
nuisance  must  now  cease. 

Pip  and  Pipette  were  also  submitted  to  a 
rather  farcical  ordeal  which  Mr.  Pocklington 
called  his  "common-sense  test."  Shortly  after 
their  arrival  they  were  called  into  the  Study, 
where  Mr.  Pocklington,  after  a  little  homily  on 
the  danger  of  judging  by  appearances  and  the 
fallaciousness  of  giving  preference  to  quantity 
rather  than  quality,  produced  a  threepenny-bit 
and  a  penny,  and  commanded  his  auditors  to 
take  their  choice.  Pipette  unhesitatingly  picked 
the  threepenny-bit,  and  was  commended  for  her 
acumen.  Pip,  when  it  came  to  his  turn,  selected 
the  penny,  and  after  being  soundly  rated  for 
his  stupidity  was  cast  forth  from  the  Study  and 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  37 

bidden  to  learn  sense.  A  week  later  he  was 
again  put  to  the  test,  and  again  chose  the 
penny,  repeating  his  performance  with  stolid 
regularity  when  given  a  further  opportunity  of 
redeeming  his  character  the  following  week. 
After  that  the  affair  developed  into  a  kind  of 
round  game,  Mr.  Pocklington  producing  the  two 
coins  from  time  to  time  and  Pip  invariably  se- 
lecting the  penny,  —  a  proceeding  which  gave  his 
preceptor  unlimited  opportunities  for  tiresome 
little  lectures  to  the  school  in  general,  and  Pip 
in  particular,  on  the  subjects  mentioned  above. 

Finally,  after  the  entertainment  had  been 
repeated  week  by  week  for  some  time,  Pipette, 
whose  loyal  little  soul  chafed  at  the  sycophantic 
giggles  of  the  other  boys  and  girls  when  Pip 
was  being  scarified  by  Mr.  Pocklington,  boldly 
broached  the  matter  to  her  brother. 

"Pip,  why  don't  you  take  the  fripenny-bit? 
If  you  did  he'd  stop  bein'  so  howwid  to  you." 

Pip  regarded  his  sister's  small  eager  face  with 
cold  scorn. 

"If  once  I  took  the  threepenny-bit,"  he  re- 
plied, "he'd  stop  offerin'  the  money  altogether. 
Why,  I've  made  eightpence  since  I  came  here. 
Silly  kid!" 

This  was  the  last  occasion  in  their  lives  on 
which  Pipette  ever  questioned  the  wisdom  of 
her  beloved  brother's  actions. 


38          FIRST,  THE  INFANT 

Both  children  made  friends  rapidly.  Pip, 
indeed,  soon  after  his  arrival,  received  a  proposal 
of  marriage,  which,  ever  ready  to  oblige  a  lady, 
he  accepted  forthwith.  But  he  was  reckoning 
without  Pipette.  That  jealous  little  person,  find- 
ing one  day  that  Pip  had  suddenly  deserted  her, 
and  was  at  that  moment  actually  sharing  his 
morning  bun  with  his  fiancee  in  the  boot-room, 
incontinently  burst  in  upon  the  lovers,  and  after 
a  brief  but  decisive  interview  despatched  her 
rival  howling  from  the  room,  remaining  herself 
to  share  the  bun  with  the  newly  restored  Pip, 
who,  to  be  quite  frank,  had  been  finding  the  role 
of  a  Romeo,  however  passive,  rather  exacting. 

Isabel  Dinting,  the  disappointed  lady,  was 
inconsolable  for  a  day  or  two,  but  she  eventually 
recovered  her  spirits,  and  lived  to  heap  coals  of 
fire  on  Pip's  head,  as  you  shall  hear. 

One  of  the  most  curious  and  characteristic 
institutions  at  Wentworth  House  School  was 
Mr.  Pocklington's  system  of  "Task-Tickets." 
Every  boy  and  girl  on  entering  the  school  re- 
ceived ten  little  tablets  about  the  size  of  visiting- 
cards,  inscribed  with  his  or  her  name,  and  num- 
bered from  one  to  ten  consecutively.  If  a  pupil 
failed  in  a  lesson  or  broke  a  rule,  one  of  his  Task- 
Tickets  was  impounded,  and  was  not  restored 
until  the  faulty  lesson  was  perfected  or  a  specified 
imposition  performed.  Periodically  there  would 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  39 

be  an  "inspection,"  and  many  a  small  head 
whose  owner  was  discovered  to  be  short  of 
tickets  would  be  hung  in  shame  that  day.  Only 
such  confirmed  reprobates  as  Thomas  Gates,  the 
bad  boy  of  the  school  (whom  Mr.  Pocklington 
in  his  more  jocular  moments  addressed  as  "Ti- 
tus," much  to  his  hearers'  mystification),  could 
endure  the  stigma  of  being  perpetually  without  a 
full  complement.  Thomas  indeed  once  electrified 
the  school  by  announcing  to  Miss  Mary,  when 
asked  for  a  ticket  in  default  of  an  unlearned  les- 
son, that  all  his  tickets  were  in  pawn  already,  and 
that,  until  he  had  redeemed  one  of  the  same,  he 
would  be  unable  to  oblige  her.  Mr.  Pocklington 
and  the  majority  of  his  staff  were  horror-struck 
at  such  iniquity;  but  Miss  Mary,  in  whom  was 
concentrated  most  of  the  common  sense  of  the 
family,  instituted  a  search  in  Master  Thomas's 
desk,  with  the  result  that  she  triumphantly 
fished  out  no  less  than  five  tickets.  All  of  which 
goes  to  prove  that  Thomas  Gates,  like  a  good 
many  of  us,  preferred  notoriety,  even  as  a  male- 
factor, to  respectable  oblivion. 

The  Task-Ticket  system  presented  another 
feature  of  interest.  Besides  their  regulation  ten 
ordinary  tickets,  Mr.  Pocklington's  pupils  were 
entitled  to  acquire  "Special  Task-Tickets."  If 
you  weeded  the  garden,  or  filled  some  ink-pots, 
or  wrote  a  specially  neat  copy,  you  were  pre- 


40          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

sented  with  a  Task-Ticket  marked  "Special"  in 
red  ink  in  one  corner.  Next  time  a  breakdown 
in  work  or  the  infraction  of  a  rule  brought  you 
within  the  sphere  of  operations  of  Mr.  Pockling- 
ton's  penal  code,  exemption  from  punishment 
could  be  purchased  by  payment  of  one  or  more 
of  your  Special  Task-Tickets.  This  scheme  was 
attractive  in  several  ways.  Good  children  — 
chiefly  little  girls,  it  must  be  admitted  —  accum- 
ulated these  treasures  assiduously  for  the  mere 
joy  of  possession,  the  trifling  fact  that  then* 
owners  were  far  too  virtuous  to  be  likely  ever  to 
have  need  of  them  being  more  than  counterbal- 
anced by  the  comfortable  glow  of  satisfaction 
with  which  the  existence  of  such  a  moral  bank- 
balance  suffused  then-  rather  self-righteous  little 
bosoms.  Wicked  children,  on  the  other  hand, 
would  laboriously  collect  tickets  against  a  rainy 
day,  and,  having  accumulated  a  sufficient  store 
to  pay  for  the  consequences,  would  indulge  in  a 
prolonged  orgy  of  sin  until  the  last  ticket  was 
gone.  Thomas  Gates  once  found  ten  Special 
Task-Tickets  in  an  old  desk,  and  having  straight- 
way filled  a  like  number  of  buttoned  boots  in  the 
girls'  dressing-room  with  soap-and-water,  prof- 
fered the  same  in  compensation.  However,  the 
possession  of  so  much  hoarded  virtue  in  such  a 
proclaimed  reprobate  roused  the  suspicions  of 
the  authorities.  Inquiries  were  set  on  foot,  the 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  41 

fraud  was  discovered,  and  Thomas  was  only 
saved  from  expulsion  from  Wentworth  House 
School  by  the  intercession  of  pretty  Miss  Amelia, 
who  cherished  a  weakness  for  all  renegades  of  the 
opposite  sex. 

Pip's  tear-stained  ex-fiancee,  Isabel  Dinting, 
anxious  to  drive  away  the  depression  resultant 
upon  her  unfortunate  attachment,  allowed  herself 
to  become  badly  bitten  with  the  ticket-collecting 
mania.  Her  own  ten  ordinary  tickets  invariably 
presented  a  full  muster,  and  all  her  soul  was  set 
upon  the  acquisition  of  Specials.  These,  by 
the  way,  were  transferable,  and  consequently 
Isabel's  friends  were  requested  to  bestir  them- 
selves, and  by  extra  acts  of  virtue  earn  some- 
thing to  contribute  to  her  store.  Pip  himself 
assisted  her.  One  day  he  caught  and  expelled 
from  the  classroom  a  troublesome  bumblebee, 
and,  much  to  his  surprise,  was  awarded  a 
Special  Task-Ticket  by  the  grateful  Miss  Amelia. 
He  promptly  handed  over  the  gift  to  Isabel, 
whose  gratification  knew  no  bounds.  Touched 
by  his  adorer's  thanks,  Pip  decided  in  his  quiet 
way  to  help  her  further.  Next  morning  the 
schoolroom  suffered  from  a  positive  inundation 
of  bumblebees,  and  the  services  rendered  by  Pip 
in  removing  them  were  rewarded  by  more 
Specials,  all  of  which  were  duly  handed  over  to 
the  now  greatly  consoled  Isabel.  When,  however, 


42  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

the  phenomenon  occurred  again  on  the  following 
morning,  Miss  Mary,  who  did  not  share  her  sis- 
ter's romantic  belief  in  the  integrity  of  the  male 
sex,  became  suspicious,  and  insisted  on  searching 
Pip's  desk.  An  incautiously  handled  paper  bag 
emitted  a  perfect  cascade  of  moribund  bumble- 
bees, and  Pip's  ingenious  device  for  obliging  a 
lady  stood  revealed.  After  that  he  made  no  more 
contributions  to  the  supply. 

Mention  has  already  been  made  of  that  arch- 
ruffian  Master  Thomas  Gates.  With  him  Pip 
waged  war  from  the  day  that  he  entered  the 
school.  Hostilities  commenced  immediately. 
Thomas  dared  Pip  to  place  his  hand  in  a  can 
of  almost  boiling  water  in  the  dressing-room. 
Pip  did  so,  and  kept  it  there  unwinkingly  for 
the  space  of  a  full  minute.  Next  day  his  hand 
was  skinless,  and  Father  had  to  dress  it  for  him 
in  splendidly  conspicuous  bandages.  Pip  retali- 
ated by  initiating  a  breath-holding  contest,  in 
which  his  opponent  was  not  only  worsted,  but 
admitted  his  defeat  by  an  involuntary  and  sonor- 
ous gurgle  right  in  the  middle  of  one  of  Mr.  Pock- 
lington's  customary  harangues  on  nothing  in 
particular  in  the  large  schoolroom.  He  was 
promptly  scarified  for  his  unseemly  conduct  and 
fined  three  Task-Tickets. 

One  afternoon,  to  the  curiosity  of  all  and  the 
trepidation  of  some,  "Whistle-in"  sounded  at 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  43 

two-fifteen  instead  of  two-twenty-five.  Evi- 
dently something  momentous  was  about  to 
occur. 

All  his  pupils  being  seated,  and  the  roll  having 
been  called,  Mr.  Pocklington,  with  an  air  of 
portentous  solemnity,  explained  the  reason  for 
which  they  were  assembled  and  met  together. 
It  was  nothing  very  dreadful  after  all,  but  the 
seriousness  with  which  the  subject  was  treated 
by  their  preceptor  impressed  the  children  with  a 
hazy  feeling  that  they  were  assisting  at  a  mur- 
der trial. 

Some  person  or  persons  unknown,  it  appeared, 
had  invaded  the  Study,  and  had  embellished 
the  features  of  a  bust  of  Julius  Caesar,  which 
stood  on  the  mantelpiece,  with  some  assorted 
coloured  chalks,  which  further  investigation 
proved  to  have  been  stolen  from  the  chalk- 
box  by  the  blackboard.  Mr.  Pocklington,  who 
was  not  blessed  with  a  sense  of  humour,  sought 
to  drive  home  the  enormity  of  this  offence  by 
ocular  demonstration.  He  rang  the  bell;  and 
after  a  short  but  impressive  pause  the  door  of 
the  schoolroom  was  thrown  open  by  the  page- 
boy, and  the  butler  staggered  majestically  in, 
carrying  Julius  Caesar  on  a  tea-tray.  That  em- 
pire-builder's "make-up"  could  hardly  be  called 
a  becoming  one.  A  red  nose  gave  him  a  bibulous 
appearance,  his  blue  chin  suggested  late  rising 


44  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

and  the  absence  of  a  razor,  and  a  highly  unsym- 
metrical  moustache,  executed  in  mauve  chalk, 
stood  out  in  vivid  contrast  to  his  blackened  right 
eye.  It  says  much  for  the  impression  which  Mr. 
Pocklington's  introductory  harangue  had  pro- 
duced that  not  a  child  in  the  room  so  much  as 
smiled. 

The  perspiring  butler  having  set  down  his 
alcoholic-looking  burden  upon  a  small  table  and 
withdrawn,  attended  by  his  satellite,  —  the  only 
person  present,  by  the  way,  who  appeared  in- 
clined to  regard  the  situation  with  levity,  — 
Mr.  Pocklington  once  more  addressed  his  cower- 
ing audience. 

"I  will  now  ask  the  perpetrator  of  this  out- 
rage," he  thundered,  "to  stand  up,  that  I  may 
punish  him  as  he  deserves.'* 

The  little  girls  all  shivered  with  apprehension, 
but  one  or  two  little  boys  looked  slightly  amused. 
They  were  not  very  old  or  experienced,  but  they 
were  not  green  enough  to  join  gratuitously  in  a 
game  of  "Dilly,  Dilly,  come  and  be  killed!" 

Mr.  Pocklington  played  his  next  card. 

"I  may  add,"  he  continued,  "that  a  boy  was 
seen  to  leave  the  Study  in  a  surreptitious  manner 
shortly  after  this  offence  must  have  been  com- 
mitted. No  one  has  entered  the  Study  since. 
That  boy,  therefore,  must  be  the  culprit.  If  he 
does  not  immediately  respond  to  the  dictates  of 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  45 

his  conscience  and  stand  up  in  his  place  —  I  shall 
expose  him!  Now,  please!" 

There  was  a  death-like  silence,  suddenly 
broken  by  piercing  shrieks  from  one  Gwendoline 
Harvey,  aged  seven,  for  whose  infant  nerves  the 
strain  had  proved  too  great. 

"Please,  it  wasn't  me,"  she  wailed,  "and  — 
and  —  and  I've  lost  my  hankey !" 

Tender-hearted  Miss  Arabella  supplied  the 
deficiency,  and  led  her  out,  still  sobbing.  The 
inquisition  was  resumed. 

"I  shall  give  the  culprit  one  more  minute,*' 
announced  Mr.  Pocklington  in  the  tones  of  a 
Grand  Inquisitor. 

There  was  another  tense  silence.  The  inmates 
of  Wentworth  House  School  breathed  hard, 
looked  straight  before  them,  and  waited  with 
their  small  mouths  wide  open.  One  or  two  little 
girls  —  and  small  boys,  for  that  matter  — 
gripped  the  benches  convulsively,  and  with  diffi- 
culty refrained  from  screaming. 

"The  minute  has  elapsed,"  proclaimed  the 
Grand  Inquisitor.  "Philip,  stand  up!" 

"Ah!"  A  long,  shuddering  sigh,  partly  of 
relief  and  partly  of  apprehension,  ran  round  the 
room.  Pipette  turned  deathly  pale.  Pip  rose 
slowly  to  his  feet,  staring  intently  in  his  discon- 
certing way  at  the  besotted  features  of  Julius 
Caesar. 


46          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

"Philip,"  said  Mr.  Pocklington,  "you  were 
seen  coming  out  of  the  Study  at  one-twenty. 
What  have  you  to  say?" 

Pip  had  nothing  to  say,  but  transferred  his 
gaze  to  Mr.  Pocklington.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he 
had  not  entered  the  Study.  He  had  spent  some 
time,  it  was  true,  in  the  passage  outside  the  door, 
but  that  was  because  he  was  waiting  for  Thomas 
Gates,  having  arranged  to  meet  him  there  for  five 
minutes,  for  the  purpose  of  adjusting  a  small  dif- 
ference on  a  matter  of  a  purely  personal  charac- 
ter, calling  for  plenty  of  elbow-room  and  freedom 
from  publicity.  Tommy  Gates  had  not  appeared, 
and  Pip  had  been  late  for  luncheon  in  conse- 
quence. 

"Do  you  confess  to  this  outrage?"  inquired 
Mr.  Pocklington,  coming  suddenly  to  the  point. 

Pip  collected  himself.  Then  as  common  polite- 
ness seemed  to  demand  some  sort  of  reply,  he 
said,  "No." 

Another  slight  shudder  passed  round  the 
room. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  the  matter?" 

Pip  was  about  to  reply  with  another  negative, 
when  it  suddenly  flashed  across  his  mind  that 
as  he  stood  outside  the  Study  waiting  for  Master 
Gates  he  had  experienced  considerable  difficulty 
in  getting  rid  of  Isabel  Dinting,  who  had  hovered 
around  him  in  a  highly  flattering  but  most  em- 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  47 

barrassing  fashion  just  when  he  wished  to  com- 
pose and  concentrate  his  faculties  for  his  coming 
interview  with  Tommy.  What  was  she  doing 
there?  What  could  her  business  have  been? 
In  plain  truth  she  had  come  to  avert  a  possible 
battle  between  Pip  and  Tommy,  but  this  never 
occurred  to  Pip:  he  had  not  thought  it  possible 
that  any  one  should  take  such  a  close  interest 
in  his  movements.  Anyhow  this  was  no  concern 
of  his.  Accordingly  he  said,  "No" a  second  time. 

Then  came  another  question. 

"Do  you  deny  having  been  in  the  Study?" 

"Yes." 

"But  you  were  seen  coming  from  the  passage 
leading  to  the  Study  door." 

No  answer. 

"Do  you  admit  that  you  were  in  that  pas- 


"Yes."   (Sensation.) 

"  Philip,"  said  Mr.  Pocklington,  "that  passage 
leads  only  to  the  Study.  What  other  motive 
can  have  taken  you  there?" 

No  answer.  It  is  difficult  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  to  frame  a  plausible  excuse  for  having 
in  cold  blood  arranged  a  sanguinary  encounter 
outside  your  Principal's  study  door. 

"Do  you  decline  to  answer?" 

Again  no  reply  from  Pip.  Another  pause.  Mr. 
Pocklington,  now  as  excited  as  a  terrier  halfway 


48  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

down  a  rabbit-hole,  with  difficulty  refrained 
from  pronouncing  sentence  on  the  spot.  How- 
ever, he  restrained  himself  so  far  as  to  remember 
to  sum  up. 

"Appearances  are  against  you,  Philip,"  he 
began.  "You  were  seen  leaving  the  —  the  scene 
of  the  outrage  in  a  suspicious  manner  shortly 
after  that  outrage  was  committed.  You  decline 
to  state  what  business  took  you  there.  No  one 
else  visited  the  spot  during  the  time  under  con- 
sideration —  at  least  —  by  the  way,  did  you  see 
any  one  else  while  you  —  during  that  period?" 

This  chance  shot  hit  Pip  hard.  That  Isabel 
Dinting  should  have  painted  Julius  Caesar's  nose 
red  seemed  almost  beyond  the  bounds  of  human 
probability.  Still  she  undoubtedly  had  been 
there,  and  with  Mr.  Pocklington  in  his  present 
state  the  sudden  revelation  of  such  a  fact  would 
probably  cause  a  perfect  eruption.  Pip  hesi- 
tated. 

"Was  any  one  else  there?"  reiterated  Mr. 
Pocklington. 

Pip  was  essentially  a  truthful  boy,  and  the 
idea  of  saying,  "No"  never  occurred  to  him. 
Accordingly  he  said  nothing,  as  before. 

The  eruption  immediately  took  place. 

"Philip,"  thundered  Mr.  Pocklington,  "I  have 
asked  you  two  questions.  You  have  answered 
neither  of  them.  Do  you  decline  to  do  so?" 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  49 

A  very  long  pause  this  time.  Then  —  "Yes," 
said  Pip  briefly. 

"In  that  case,"  replied  Mr.  Pocklington,  meta- 
phorically assuming  the  black  cap,  "I  must  pro- 
nounce you  guilty.  Still,  I  would  rather  you 
confessed  than  were  convicted.  I  will  give  you 
one  more  minute." 

Sixty  palpitating  seconds  passed.  Forty  juve- 
nile hearts  bumped  tumultuously,  and  Pip  still 
stood  up,  a  very  straight,  very  silent,  and  not 
undignified  little  figure. 

"Have  you  anything  further  to  say?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Pocklington  at  last,  now  almost  con- 
vinced that  he  was  the  Lord  Chief  Justice 
himself. 

Pip  shook  his  head.  He  seldom  wasted  words. 

"Then  I  pronounce  you  guilty.  You  have 
committed  an  offence  against  decency  and  good 
taste  that  I  have  never  known  paralleled  in  the 
history  of  this  school.  Your  punishment"  —  the 
children  held  their  breath  —  "must  be  a  matter 
for  consideration.  Meanwhile  — " 

Mr.  Pocklington  paused,  and  frowned  at  Isabel 
Dinting,  who  was  groping  for  something  in  her 
desk. 

"Meanwhile,"  he  continued,  having  suddenly 
decided  to  keep  Pip  in  durance  vile  until  a  punish- 
ment could  be  devised  in  keeping  with  his  crime, 
"you  will  be  incarcerated  —  Well,  Isabel?" 


50  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

Isabel  Dinting  was  standing  up  in  her  place, 
with  her  small  countenance  flushed  and  appre- 
hensive, but  bravely  waving  one  hand  in  the  air 
to  attract  attention.  In  the  other  she  grasped 
a  rather  grubby  and  bulgy  envelope. 

"Please,  may  I  speak  to  Pi— Philip?"  she 
gasped. 

Mr.  Pocklington  was  too  surprised  to  be 
pedantic. 

"To  Philip?  Why,  my  child?" 

"Because  —  well,  because  I  Ve  got  somefing  to 
give  him." 

"This  is  hardly  the  time  for  an  exchange  of 
gifts,"  remarked  Mr.  Pocklington  severely. 

"But  may  I?  "  persisted  Isabel,  with  a  boldness 
which  surprised  herself. 

"I  cannot  imagine  what  your  gift  can  be,  but 
if  it  has  any  bearing  on  the  present  deplorable 
case,  I  should  be  only  too  thankful  to  permit  — " 

But  long  before  this  homily  was  completed 
Isabel  had  slipped  out  of  her  seat  and  was  stand- 
ing by  Pip's  side,  whispering  excitedly  into  his 
ear  and  endeavouring  to  thrust  the  grubby  en- 
velope into  his  hands. 

"Take  them,"  she  panted.  "There's  thirty- 
five  of  them.  Give  him  them  all,  now,  and  he  '11 
let  you  off." 

Poor  little  Isabel!  Surely  under  all  the  broad 
heavens  there  was  no  crime  that  could  not  be 


MR.  POCKLINGTON'S  51 

atoned  for  by  the  surrender  of  thirty-five  labo- 
riously acquired  Special  Task-Tickets ! 

Pip  smiled  at  her.  He  was  a  plain-looking 
little  boy,  but  he  possessed  an  extraordinarily 
attractive  smile,  and  Isabel  felt  utterly,  abso- 
lutely, and  completely  rewarded  for  her  sacrifice. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Pocklington  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  all  this  was  highly  irregular. 

"Bring  me  that  envelope!"  he  commanded. 

Pip  handed  up  the  envelope.  Mr.  Pocklington 
opened  it,  and  out  tumbled  the  thirty-five  Special 
Task-Tickets. 

"What  is  all  this?"  he  inquired  testily. 

"Special  Task-Tickets,"  replied  Pip. 

"To  whom  do  they  belong?" 

"Isabel." 

"No  —  they  belong  to  Pip!"  screamed  that 
small  maiden.  "  Won't  you  let  him  off  if  he  gives 
them  all  to  you,  please?  I  've  given  them  to  him. 
I  —  I  don't  mind  losin'  them." 

Isabel's  voice  quavered  suddenly;  and  then, 
having  conducted  her  case  unflinchingly  past  the 
critical  point,  she  dissolved,  woman-like,  into 
reactionary  tears. 

There  was  a  long  silence  now,  broken  only  by 
Isabel's  sobs.  Pip  stood  still  stiffly  at  attention, 
facing  the  grinning  effigy  of  Julius  Caesar.  Every 
child  in  the  room  (except  Pipette)  was  lost  in 
admiration  of  Isabel's  heroic  devotion,  for  all 


52  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

knew  how  precious  was  her  collection  of  tickets 
to  her.  Miss  Mary  smiled  genially;  Miss  Amelia's 
eyes  filled  with  sympathetic  tears.  Even  Mr. 
Pocklington  was  touched.  Hastily  he  flung  to- 
gether hi  his  mind  a  few  sentences  appropriate 
to  the  occasion.  " Unselfishness "  —  "devotion 
to  a  friend"  —  "a  lesson  for  all"  —  the  rounded 
phrases  formed  themselves  upon  his  tongue.  He 
was  ready  now. 

"I  cannot  refrain  — "he  began. 

It  was  true  enough,  but  he  got  no  further;  for 
above  the  formal  tones  of  his  voice,  above  the 
stifled  whispering  of  the  school,  and  above  the 
now  unrestrained  lamentations  of  Isabel  Dinting, 
rose  the  voice  of  Master  Thomas  Gates,  in  a  howl 
in  which  remorse,  hysteria,  and  apprehension 
were  about  equally  mingled. 

"  It  was  me ! "  he  roared.   "  Booh  —  hoo ! " 

His  sinful  but  sentimental  soul,  already  goaded 
to  excessive  discomfort  by  the  promptings  of  an 
officious  conscience,  had  with  difficulty  endured 
the  inquisition  upon  the  innocent  Pip,  and  after 
Isabel's  romantic  intervention  he  could  contain 
himself  no  longer.  Confession  burst  spontane- 
ously from  his  lips. 

"It  was  me!"  he  repeated,  fortissimo,  knuck- 
ling his  eyes. 

There  was  a  final  astonished  gasp  from  the 
school. 


MR.   POCKLINGTON'S  53 

"It  was  7,  Thomas,"  corrected  Mr.  Pockling- 
ton,  the  ruling  passion  strong  even  at  this  crisis. 

"No  it  was  n't!"  roared  Thomas,  determined 
to  purge  his  soul.  "It  was  me!  I  was  in  the  Study 
when  Pip  was  outside,  and  I  did  it  and  got  out 
when  he  was  talking  to  Isabel,,  and  —  and  I 
won't  do  it  again.  Aah  —  ooh!" 

Pip  became  a  hero,  of  course,  but  bore  his 
honours  with  indifference. 

Isabel  expostulated  with  him. 

"It  was  awful  brave  of  you  to  say  nothin'  all 
the  time,"  she  remarked  admiringly. 

"There  was  nothing  to  say,"  replied  Pip,  with 
truth. 

"But  you  said  nothin*  when  you  knew  it  was 
Tommy  all  the  time,"  persisted  Isabel,  anxious 
to  keep  her  idol  on  his  pedestal. 

"I  did  n't  think  it  was  Tommy,"  said  Pip;  "I 
thought  it  was  you." 

Isabel's  round  eyes  grew  positively  owl-like. 

"Me?  Oh,  Pip!  How  splendid  of  you!" 

In  his  lifetime  Pip  inspired  three  women  with 
love  for  him  —  two  more  than  his  proper  allow- 
ance. Isabel  was  the  first.  The  others  will  follow 
in  due  course. 


CHAPTER  m 

"HAM" 

THE  schoolmaster  realises  early  in  his  career 
that  he  is  not  a  universally  popular  person.  If  he 
keeps  his  boys  in  order  and  compels  them  to 
work,  they  dislike  him  heartily;  if  he  allows 
them  to  do  as  they  please  they  despise  him;  if 
he  is  cheerful  and  jocose  in  his  demeanour,  they 
consider  him  "a  funny  ass";  if  he  is  austere  and 
academic,  they  call  him  "a  gloomy  swine."  If 
he  endeavours,  by  strong  measures,  to  call  sin- 
ners to  repentance,  he  is  said  to  have  done  so 
from  personal  spite;  and  if  he  shows  kindness  to 
the  few  righteous  persons  whom  he  may  encounter 
in  his  form,  he  is  accused  of  favouritism.  After 
he  has  been  at  school  a  short  time  he  realises 
this,  and  it  distresses  him. 

Sometimes  he  goes  so  far  as  to  decide  that  he 
has  mistaken  his  vocation,  and  he  resigns  and 
becomes  a  school  inspector.  But  presently  he 
notices  that  elderly  and  revered  colleagues  have 
laughed  and  grown  fat  under  this  treatment  for 
thirty  years,  and  indeed  look  upon  the  seething 
indignation  of  their  subjects  as  the  salt  of  life. 
This  comforts  him.  He  tries  again,  and  presently 
discovers  that  it  is  possible  to  be  the  hated  op- 


HAM  55 

pressor  of  his  form  in  public  and  their  familiar 
friend  and  trusted  adviser  in  private.  Collective 
hostility  vanishes  under  the  influence  of  a  cup  of 
tea  or  an  evening  on  the  river,  and  individual 
friendship  takes  its  place.  Last  of  all,  as  he 
grows  older,  comes  that  continuous  calm  which 
marks  his  older  colleagues:  for  he  knows  now 
that  Jinks  minor  and  Muggins  tertius,  who  sit  in 
the  back  row  with  lowering  brows  and  grinding 
teeth,  chafing  under  his  tyranny  and  preaching 
sedition  at  intervals,  will  one  day  come  and  sit  in 
his  armchairs,  with  then*  feet  on  his  mantelpiece, 
bearded  or  sunburned  or  distinguished,  and  will 
convey  to  him,  if  not  in  words,  at  any  rate  by 
then*  demeanour,  their  heartfelt  thanks  for  the 
benefits  which  he  lavished  upon  them  with  so 
unsparing  a  hand  in  the  grand  old  days  in  the 
Shell  or  the  Remove  or  the  Lower  Fifth.  That 
is  his  reward.  Men  have  died  for  less. 

Now,  Mr.  Hanbury,  lord  and  master  of  the 
Lower  Shell,  a  sort  of  intellectual  dust-heap  on 
the  Modern  side  at  Grandwich  School,  was 
specially  favoured  by  the  gods  in  that  he  received 
his  reward  more  quickly  than  most.  He  was 
twenty-nine;  he  had  been  a  famous  Cricket  Blue, 
and  he  enjoyed  the  respectful  admiration  of  count- 
less boys,  who  listened  eagerly  to  his  small  talk, 
felt  proud  when  he  spoke  to  them  unofficially, 
and  endeavoured  to  imitate  his  bowling  action. 


56  FIRST,  THE,  INFANT  .  .  .- 

He  also  possessed  other  qualifications.  He 
loved  his  work,  he  took  immense  pains  to  under- 
stand each  of  his  boys,  and  he  endeavoured  by 
daily  admonition  and  occasional  castigation  to 
goad  his  form  into  respectability. 

For  in  truth  they  were  a  poor  lot.  Why 
they  were  called  the  Shell  was  a  mystery,  — 
the  Sieve  would  have  described  them  better. 
Large,  cumbrous  persons,  with  small  heads  and 
colossal  feet,  with  vacant  faces  and  incipient 
beards,  stuck  in  its  meshes  and  remained  there 
forever,  while  their  more  youthful  and  slippery 
brethren  wriggled  through.  Most  masters  re- 
signed then-  posts  after  a  year  of  the  Lower  Shell, 
with  the  result  that  that  glorious  company  were 
constantly  entrusted  to  the  newest  and  rawest 
recruit  on  the  staff.  Consequently  discipline 
was  lax;  and  when  the  Head  rather  apologeti- 
cally handed  the  form  over  to  Mr.  Hanbury,  it 
became  instantly  apparent  that  the  ultimate 
result  would  be  the  collapse  of  Hanbury  or  the 
reformation  of  the  Shell. 

The  latter  alternative  came  to  pass,  but  not 
before  both  sides  had  distinguished  themselves 
in  several  engagements. 

Mr.  Hanbury  had  to  teach  his  form  self-re- 
spect. Long  experience  had  taught  them  that 
they  were  incapable  as  a  body  of  producing  good 
work;  and  being  constitutionally  averse  to  half- 


HAM  57 

measures,  they  were  accustomed,  rather  than 
turn  out  a  second-rate  article,  to  turn  out  noth- 
ing at  all.  Like  the  Tenth,  who  do  not  dance, 
the  Lower  Shell  did  not  work. 

They  therefore  looked  upon  it  as  a  breach  of 
academic  etiquette  when  Mr.  Hanbury  violently 
assaulted  three  of  their  most  distinguished 
members,  for  no  other  reason  than  that  they, 
following  the  immemorial  custom  of  the  form, 
omitted  for  three  consecutive  evenings  to  do 
any  "prep."  With  ready  acumen  the  Shell  also 
discovered  that  their  new  form-master  had  no 
sense  of  humour.  Else  why,  when  Elphinstone, 
commonly  known  as  "Top-knot,"  let  loose  a 
blackbird  from  a  bandbox  during  the  history 
hour,  and  every  one  else  present  was  convulsed 
with  honest  mirth,  should  Mr.  Hanbury,  with  an 
absolutely  fatuous  affectation  of  solemnity,  have 
made  absurd  remarks  about  teaching  small  boys 
manners,  and  have  laid  such  violent  hands  on 
Elphinstone  as  to  make  it  necessary  for  that 
enterprising  ornithologist  to  take  his  meals  from 
off  the  mantelpiece  for  the  next  three  days? 

Besides  being  a  tyrant  and  a  dullard,  their 
form-master,  they  observed,  was  not  even  a 
gentleman.  When  Crabbe  major,  a  youth  of 
determined  character  and  litigious  habits,  took 
the  trouble  to  stay  behind  and  point  out  to 
Mr.  Hanbury  that  by  depriving  him  (Crabbe 


58  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

major)  of  all  his  marks  for  the  week  for  the  pal- 
try indiscretion  of  cribbing  from  Jones,  Mr.  Han- 
bury  was  outraging  the  most  elementary  prin- 
ciples of  justice  (Jones's  involuntary  aid  being 
not  worth  even  an  hour's  marks),  his  treatment 
of  Crabbe  was  undignified  and  flippant  to  the 
last  degree. 

"Look  here,  my  dear  young  Christian  friend," 
he  had  said,  "just  cut  away  to  your  tea,  and 
be  thankful  you  are  in  a  condition  to  sit  down 
to  it." 

Crabbe  disregarded  the  utter  grossness  of  this 
innuendo. 

"My  people,  sir,"  he  remarked,  "will  not  be 
pleased  if  I  go  home  at  the  end  of  the  term  with- 
out any  marks." 

"Is  that  all?"  replied  Mr.  Hanbury.  "Step 
round  to  my  room  before  your  cab  comes  and 
I  '11  send  you  home  all  over  them.  Now,  hook  it, 
and  don't  be  a  young  ass  again." 

A  reply  in  the  worst  possible  taste,  the  form 
decided. 

Mr.  Hanbury,  or  "Ham"  as  he  was  usually 
called,  had  been  in  charge  of  the  Lower  Shell 
some  four  years,  and  had  long  reduced  that 
chaotic  assembly  to  respectability,  and  even  in- 
telligence. It  was  the  first  morning  of  a  new 
term,  and  he  had  just  entered  his  classroom, 
and  was  engaged  in  greeting  his  pupils.  The  cere- 


HAM  59 

mony  over,  he  mounted  his  throne  and  addressed 
the  multitude,  — 

"Having  said  'How  do  you  do?'  to  all  of  you, 
I  will  now  proceed  to  say  'Good-bye'  to  some  of 
you.  Hood  down  to  Aitchison,  you  are  pro- 
moted. Out  you  go !  Mr.  Mayor  is  anxious  to 
make  your  acquaintance." 

Ten  sheepish  youths  rose  up  and  filed  out. 

"Now,  move  up,  all  of  you.  We  shall  have 
some  recruits  in  presently.  Brown  minor,  you 
have  not  got  your  remove,  but  you  are  now  in  the 
proud  position  of  head  boy  of  this  form.  Hallo ! 
here  come  our  friends  from  the  Lower  Regions." 

Eleven  far  more  sheepish  youths  here  entered 
the  room,  headed  by  a  small  boy  in  spectacles, 
who  made  his  entrance  some  way  ahead  of  his 
fellows  with  a  suddenness  that  suggested  pro- 
pulsion from  the  rear.  All  took  up  a  retired  posi- 
tion on  the  back  bench. 

"Now,  sort  yourselves,"  continued  Ham. 
"Old  guard,  close  up!  Then  the  promotions, 
then  the  new  boys  in  alphabetical  order." 

This  arrangement  left  the  form  in  something 
like  order.  At  the  head  sat  Mr.  Brown  minor; 
at  the  tail  a  small  and  alert  youth  with  black 
hair,  a  face  freckled  like  a  plover's  egg,  and 
solemn  eyes. 

The  Commander-in-Chief  addressed  them,  — 

"Brown  minor,  you  are  unanimously  elected 


60  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

first  lieutenant.  You  must  remind  me  to  set 
preparation  every  night,  and  you  will  write  the 
same  on  the  board  in  a  fair  round  hand,  that 
he  who  runs  for  tea  may  read.  You,  sir,  —  let 
me  see,  Wilmot:  thank  you"  (addressing  the 
solemn  youth  at  the  foot  of  the  form)  —  "are 
hereby  appointed  scavenger.  Your  duties  will  be 
explained  to  you  by  Mr.  Brown.  They  relate 
chiefly  to  the  tidiness  of  this  room.  You  have 
obtained  this  important  post  solely  because  of 
your  position  in  the  alphabet.  If  you  had  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  called  Atkins  or  Absalom, 
you  would  have  failed  to  do  so.  We  will  now 
proceed  to  the  orders  of  the  day." 

And  this  was  Pip's  first  encounter  with  one 
of  his  lifelong  friends. 

The  friendship  did  not  form  itself  all  at  once. 
For  a  year  they  struggled  together,  Mr.  Han- 
bury  to  find  something  that  Pip  could  learn,  Pip 
to  find  something  that "  Ham  "  could  teach.  Pip, 
it  must  be  confessed,  was  no  genius,  even  from 
Thomas  Carlyle's  point  of  view,  and  he  retained 
the  post  of  scavenger  for  the  whole  of  his  first 
year  in  the  form.  Otherwise,  he  was  well  con- 
tent. He  acquired  friends,  notably  one  Mum- 
ford,  whose  superior  position  in  the  alphabet  was 
his  sole  qualification  for  exemption  from  the  post 
of  scavenger. 

The  duties  of  that  official,  by  the  way,  were 


HAM  61 

not  arduous.  He  was  expected  to  open  the  win- 
dows wide  for  two  minutes  between  each  hour, 
to  pick  up  stray  ink-pots,  and  keep  the  black- 
board clean.  There  were  other  duties  of  an  un- 
official nature  attached  to  the  post,  the  chief 
of  which  was  to  stand  with  an  eye  glued  to  the 
keyhole  until  the  master  for  the  hour  loomed 
upon  the  horizon,  and  then  to  herald  his  ap- 
proach by  a  cry  of  "  Cave!"  whereupon  the  form 
would  betake  themselves  to  their  seats  with  an 
alacrity  which  varied  inversely  with  the  master's 
reputation  for  indulgence. 

One  day  Mr.  Hanbury  thoughtlessly  came  by 
an  unexpected  route,  and  was  at  the  door-handle 
before  Pip  realised  that  he  was  near.  Conse- 
quently Pip  was  thrown  heavily  on  to  his  back 
with  a  contused  eye;  and  after  listening  through- 
out the  hour  to  facetious  remarks  from  Ham 
about  Sister  Anne  and  Horatius  Codes,  endured 
the  further  indignity  of  being  kicked  by  a  select 
committee  of  the  Lower  Shell,  who  afterwards 
deposed  him  from  his  high  office,  and  appointed 
Mumford  in  his  stead. 

Pip's  services,  however,  were  speedily  requi- 
sitioned again,  for  Mumford  proved  but  a  broken 
reed.  He  was  by  nature  deliberate  in  his  move- 
ments, and  the  form  were  more  than  once  taken 
by  surprise  owing  to  their  watchman's  remiss- 
ness  at  the  keyhole.  His  last  performance,  that 


62  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

which  brought  Pip  back  to  \  office,  was  of  such 
an  exceptional  nature,  and  took  the  fancy  of 
the  school  to  such  an  extent,  that  it  is  to  this 
day  preserved  among  the  unwritten  archives  of 
Grandwich,  bracketed  equal  with  the  occasion 
on  which  Plumbley  minor  walked  into  the  French 
classroom  whistling,  with  a  bandbox  containing 
a  nest  of  field-mice  under  his  arm,  only  to  dis- 
cover, after  liberating  the  mice,  that  the  Head 
was  sitting  in  the  French  master's  place. 

Mumford  one  day  stood  crouching  at  his  key- 
hole. All  around  him  surged  the  Lower  Shell, 
busily  employed  in  obliterating  the  traces  of  a 
brief  but  sanguinary  combat  between  Jenkins 
and  MacFarlane.  The  fight  had  arisen  over 
some  small  matter  of  an  international  character, 
and  after  four  spirited  rounds  it  was  decided 
that  honours  so  far  wrere  equally  divided,  and 
that  the  final  round  had  better  be  postponed 
until  the  interval  before  dinner.  The  form  ac- 
cordingly settled  down  in  their  places,  and  with 
a  passing  admonition  to  Mumford  to  perse- 
vere in  his  vigil,  betook  themselves  to  conver- 
sation until  Ham  should  be  pleased  to  put  in 
an  appearance.  As  that  tyrant  had  not  yet 
appeared  at  the  far  end  of  the  corridor  outside, 
Mumford  decided  that  this  was  a  good  oppor- 
tunity for  retiring  for  a  brief  moment  from  his 
post  to  his  locker,  for  purposes  of  refreshment. 


HAM  63 

But  fortune  was  against  him.  Mr.  Hanbury  had 
been  out  to  see  the  ground-man  on  some  cricket 
business,  and  consequently  came  up  to  his  class- 
room by  that  abominable  "alternative  route." 
He  entered  the  room  quietly,  and  after  walking 
to  his  desk  was  on  the  point  of  reprimanding 
Mumford,  whose  head  was  buried  in  his  locker, 
for  being  out  of  his  seat,  when  his  words  were 
arrested  by  the  somewhat  eccentric  behaviour 
of  that  remarkable  youth.  Mumford  left  his 
locker,  and  having  thrust  a  biscuit  into  his 
cheek,  walked  across  the  room  to  the  door,  where 
he  bent  down  and  applied  his  eye  to  the  keyhole. 

The  form  sat  spellbound;  and  Mr.  Hanbury 
was  too  astonished  to  break  the  silence. 

Meanwhile  the  infatuated  Mumford,  having 
finished  his  biscuit,  proceeded  to  describe  to  his 
classmates  the  movements  of  the  enemy  outside. 

"All  right!"  he  remarked  cheerfully.  "Not  in 
sight  yet  —  only  Wilkes  and  Jordan.  There 's  the 
Badger  now.  What  cheer,  Badger,  old  man?" 
(The  Badger  was  the  Senior  Science  Master.) 

The  form  gave  no  sign,  though  Brown  minor 
and  Pip  were  exhibiting  symptoms  of  incipient 
apoplexy;  and  Mr.  Hanbury  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  this  comedy  had  better  cease.  But 
the  luckless  Mumford,  his  eye  still  firmly  ad- 
hering to  the  keyhole,  continued,  — 

"Hallo!  there's  the  Head.     Hope  he  meets 


64  FIRST,  THE   INFANT  .  .  . 

some  of  those  chaps.  Very  slack,  their  not  go- 
in'  to  their  classrooms  till  five  minutes  past  the 
hour.  Wonder  where  Ham  is.  Downstairs,  I  ex- 
pect, cadging  beer  off  the  butler.  He  '11  probably 
be  tight  when  he  — " 

At  this  point,  flattered  by  the  deferential  si- 
lence with  which  his  remarks  were  being  re- 
ceived, and  desirous  of  observing  the  effect  of 
this  last  sally  on  his  fellows,  the  doomed  youth 
turned  from  the  keyhole  to  the  room.  The  first 
object  which  met  his  eye  was  his  form-master. 
The  effect  was  remarkable.  Mumford's  eyes, 
already  bulging  from  long  straining  at  the  key- 
hole, nearly  fell  from  his  head;  he  turned  deadly 
pale;  and  finally,  with  a  whoop  of  terror,  he 
dashed  from  the  room,  never  stopping  till  he 
reached  the  seclusion  of  his  study  in  his  tutor's 
house. 

He  was  not  punished,  for  Ham  knew  well  that 
no  further  penalty  was  required.  The  Lower 
Shell,  however,  unanimously  voted  Mumford 
"an  abject  blighter,"  and  restored  Pip  to  his  old 
post. 

Nearly  a  year  passed.  Pip  was  now  fifteen. 
He  had  stayed  at  the  preparatory  school  for  a 
year  longer  than  most  boys,  owing  to  an  attack 
of  mumps;  but  his  appearance  was  so  youthful 
and  his  mental  abilities  so  limited,  that  he  might 
easily  have  passed,  as  his  friend  Mumford  fre- 


HAM  65 

quently  remarked,  for  twelve.  Mr.  Hanbury  was 
not  often  puzzled  by  a  boy's  brain,  but  in  Pip's 
case  he  had  to  admit  himself  baffled. 

"I  can't  make  the  boy  out,"  he  said  to  his  col- 
league, the  Reverend  William  Mortimer  (usually 
called  "Uncle  Bill"),  who  was  Pip's  house-tutor. 
"He  has  a  wonderful  memory,  but  is  either 
unable  or  unwilling  to  think.  He  prefers  to  learn 
a  page  of  easy  history  by  heart,  and  repeat  it 
like  a  parrot,  rather  than  read  it  through  and  give 
me  the  substance  of  it  in  his  own  words." 

"Anything  for  a  change,"  grunted  Uncle  Bill. 
"I  would  cheerfully  barter  my  entire  form  of 
imbeciles  for  one  such  youth.  Look  here:  here 
is  Atkinson,  with  the  body  of  a  camel  and  the 
mind  of  a  hedgehog,  who  has  been  in  my  form 
for  three  years,  and  thinks  that  De  mortuis  nil 
nisi  bonum  is  a  good  ending  for  a  hexameter. 
And  that  boy's  mother  came  and  called  on  me 
last  term  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  confided 
to  me  that  a  boy  of  Lancelot's  eager  spirit  and 
delicate  organism  might  be  inclined  to  overwork 
himself.  I  suppose  this  other  boy's  mother,  — 
no,  by  the  way,  he  has  n't  got  one,  —  his  father 
is  a  big  West-End  doctor.  The  boy  must  have 
been  left  very  much  to  himself  in  his  childhood. 
He  has  never  read  a  story-book  in  his  life,  and 
the  cricket  news  is  all  that  he  reads  in  the  papers." 

"Ah!  is  he  a  cricketer?"  said  Hanbury. 


66  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

"On  paper:  his  real  performances  are  very 
moderate.  He  will  tell  you  the  batting  and 
bowling  average  of  every  first-class  cricketer, 
though." 

"I  don't  think  I  have  come  across  him  in 
that  line  yet.  I  am  glad  he  knows  something. 
Well,  I  am  off  to  my  classroom." 

"What?  At  this  hour  of  the  afternoon?" 

"Yes;  a  meeting  with  a  few  young  friends  to 
discuss  various  points  in  the  history  of  Samson. 
Four  of  them,  including  our  young  friend.  In- 
fernal rot,  these  Sunday  preparations !  The  boys 
don't  learn  the  work,  and  the  average  form- 
master  can't  explain  it.  They  ought  to  be  lumped 
together  on  Monday  mornings  for  you  to  take, 
padre." 

"Quite  right,  my  son,"  replied  Uncle  Bill. 
"Last  term  Kifford  told  his  form  that  a  phy- 
lactery was  a  kind  of  musical  instrument.  Well, 
cut  along.  Be  gentle  with  them." 

It  was  a  very  hot  afternoon  in  June.  Han- 
bury  found  four  discontented  young  persons 
awaiting  him.  He  was  wont  to  be  lenient  over 
the  Scripture  lesson,  and  a  misplaced  confidence 
in  this  fact  had  led  the  quartette  to  their  down- 
fall. 

"Now,  let  us  get  this  business  finished,"  he 
said  briskly.  "Are  you  all  ready  to  be  ques- 
tioned?" 


HAM  67 

The  quartette  expressed  their  readiness  to  en- 
dure the  most  searching  cross-examination. 

"Very  well,  then.  Sit  down  quickly  and  write 
out,  in  your  own  words,  an  account  of  the  events 
in  chapter  thirteen." 

Four  pens  began  to  scratch,  three  vigorously, 
the  last  more  diffidently.  At  the  end  of  twenty 
minutes  Mr.  Hanbury  called  a  halt. 

"Show  it  up,"  he  said. 

Four  inky  manuscripts  were  laid  before  him. 

"Let  me  see,"  he  continued.  "Manoah  — 
angel — sacrifice — Nazarite  —  yes."  He  glanced 
swiftly  through  the  papers.  "You  can  go,  you 
three;  but  you,  my  young  friend,"  — he  laid  a 
heavy  hand  on  Pip's  unkempt  head,  —  "will 
stay  and  talk  to  me." 

There  was  a  hasty  scuttling  of  feet,  the  bang- 
ing of  a  door,  and  Pip  was  left  alone  with  his 
master. 

Pip  sighed  and  glanced  out  of  the  window, 
through  which  came  the  regular  knock,  knock, 
of  innumerable  bats  against  innumerable  balls 
all  along  the  long  line  of  nets. 

"Come  along  to  my  study,"  said  Hanbury. 
"  No,  no,  I  'm  not  going  to  execute  you  this  time," 
as  Pip  looked  a  little  apprehensive. 

Mr.  Hanbury  occupied  two  rooms  in  a  corner 
of  Mr.  Mortimer's  house,  and  thither  Pip  was 
conducted. 


68  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

"Now,  young  man,  sit  down  in  that  armchair." 

Pip  obeyed,  and  took  his  seat  on  the  extreme 
edge. 

"You  are  a  queer  customer,"  said  Mr.  Han- 
bury  meditatively.  "You  know  ten  times  as 
much  about  that  chapter  as  Marsh  or  Stokes  or 
Fox,  and  yet  you  produced  this.  Look  at  it." 

It  certainly  was  an  interesting  document. 
Pip,  unable  to  grasp  the  main  facts  of  the  simple 
narrative  set  forth,  had  adopted  the,  to  him, 
easier  expedient  of  learning  the  chapter,  or  por- 
tions of  it,  by  heart.  The  result  was  a  curious 
framework  of  absolutely  valueless  but  fairly  cor- 
rect quotations,  and  an  utter  absence  of  any- 
thing in  the  shape  of  coherent  information. 

"And  the  children  of  Israel  did  evil  again  in  the  sight 
of  the  Lord;  and  the  Lord  delivered  them  into  the  hands 
of  the  Philistines  forty  years.1" 

"And  an  angel  appeared  unto  the  woman  and 
said  .  .  ." 

"And  the  woman  came  to  her  husband  and  said  .  .  ." 

Here  the  manuscript  came  to  an  inky  ter- 
mination. 

"What  are  these  blanks  for?"  inquired  Ham. 

"I  couldn't  remember  what  they  said,  sir," 
explained  Pip,  "so  I  put  blanks." 

"H'm;  I  see.  It  gives  their  remarks  rather  an 
expurgated  appearance,  though.  But  look  here, 
old  man,"  he  continued,  not  unkindly,  "one 


HAM  69 

quarter  of  the  labour  that  you  spent  on  learning 
this  stuff  by  heart  —  you  have  got  the  first  verse 
quite  correct,  you  see  —  would  have  enabled  you, 
if  rightly  applied,  to  give  the  gist  of  the  story  in 
your  own  words,  which  was  all  I  wanted.  Now, 
would  n't  it?" 

Pip  looked  at  him  honestly. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said. 

"But,  good  gracious,  when  you  read  a  novel  — 
say  Sherlock  Holmes  —  do  you  find  it  easier  to 
learn  it  by  heart  rather  than  gather  the  meaning 
as  you  go  along?" 

"I  have  never  read  a  novel,  sir,"  said  Pip. 

"Well,  then,  any  book?" 

"I  have  never  read  any  books,  except  the  ones 
in  school,  sir." 

"I  see  I  am  dealing  with  a  phenomenon,"  said 
Mr.  Hanbury.  "My  poor  friend,  do  you  mean  to 
say  that  your  knowledge  of  books  is  bounded  by 
Caesar  and  Arabella  Buckley?  What  did  you  do 
in  your  extreme  youth?  Did  n't  you  ever  read 
fairy  tales?  Have  n't  you  heard  of  Cinderella  or 
Jack  the  Giant-Killer?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Why,  your  par — "  Mr.  Hanbury  stopped. 
He  remembered  what  Father  William  had  told 
him,  and  he  realised  that  home  without  a  mother 
may  indeed  be  a  strange  place. 

There  was  a  pause.  Pip,  well  back  in  his  chair 


70  FIRST,  THE   INFANT  .  .  . 

now,  sat  looking  curiously  at  this  large  man, 
who  appeared  to  be  genuinely  distressed  by  his 
ignorance  of  fairy  tales.  Presently  the  master 
continued, — 

"Then  you  never  read  anything?" 

"Yes,  the  papers,  sir." 

"Come,  that's  better.   What  part?" 

"All  the  cricket." 

"Are  you  a  keen  cricketer,  then?" 

"I'm  no  good,  sir,  but  I  am  keen." 

"Well,  trot  down  and  change,  and  then  we'll 
go  to  the  field  and  I'll  run  over  your  points  at 
a  net.  We  will  see  if  you  are  as  good  a  cricketer 
as  you  are  a  scholar.  Stay  and  have  some  cake 
first.  Perhaps  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  smoke  a 
pipe.  Masters  have  their  vices,  you  see.  I 
have  n't  smoked  for  nearly  three  hours." 

So  the  pair  sat,  Pip  with  a  large  piece  of  cake 
balanced  delicately  on  his  knee,  morbidly  anx- 
ious not  to  spill  crumbs  on  the  floor;  and  Han- 
bury  lolling  back  in  his  armchair,  smoking  his 
pipe  and  surveying  this  sturdy  youth  before  him, 
who  knew  every  cricketer's  average  and  had 
never  heard  of  Cinderella. 

As  Pip  was  changing  into  flannels  a  few  min- 
utes later  he  encountered  Mumford. 

"Come  to  the  grub-shop,"  said  that  hero. 

"Can't,"  said  Pip  shortly.  "Seen  the  comb 
anywhere?  " 


HAM  71 

"Comb?  What  for?"  said  Mumford,  who 
considered  parting  the  hair  during  term-time  an 
affectation. 

"My  hair,  of  course,  silly  swine,"  replied  Pip, 
without  heat. 

"You  must  be  cracked!  Come  to  the  grub- 
shop,"  reiterated  his  friend. 

"Can't.   Promised  to  go  to  a  net  with  Ham." 

And  Pip,  having  worked  up  the  conversation 
to  this  artistic  climax,  departed,  leaving  Mum- 
ford,  who  was  not  an  athlete,  in  a  state  of  in- 
coherent amazement. 

Mr.  Hanbury  presently  arrived  at  the  net, 
with  two  more  small  boys  picked  up  on  the  way. 
Each  was  given  an  innings,  with  a  little  helpful 
coaching,  Pip  coming  last.  He  stood  up  to  the 
bowling  manfully,  and  occasionally  slogged  one  of 
his  weaker  brethren;  but  his  bat  was  anything 
but  straight,  and  Ham  bowled  him  at  will. 

"  M'  yes,"  said  Mr.  Hanbury,  "you  are  only  an 
average  lot  of  batsmen.  Can  any  of  you  bowl?" 

There  was  a  respectful  chorus  of  "No,  sir," 
as  custom  demanded. 

"Well,  try.   I  am  going  to  have  a  knock." 

Pip  and  company  bowled  a  few  laborious 
overs,  and  speedily  proved  that  their  estimate 
of  their  own  powers  was  based  upon  truth,  their 
preceptor  treating  their  deliveries  with  little 
ceremony. 


72  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

Finally  they  were  ranged  in  a  semicircle,  and 
Ham  gave  them  fielding  practice. 

Here  Pip  felt  more  at  home.  He  was  quick  on 
his  feet  and  possessed  a  "nippy"  pair  of  hands. 
His  ground  fielding  was  especially  good. 

"Hallo!"  cried  Mr.  Hanbury,  as  Pip  got  to  a 
ball  which  kept  low  down  on  his  left,  and  re- 
turned it  particularly  smartly;  "which  hand  did 
you  throw  in  that  ball  with,  young  man?" 

Pip  surveyed  two  grubby  paws  doubtfully. 

"I  think  it  was  my  left,  sir,"  he  said  apolo- 
getically. "I  can't  help  it  sometimes." 

"Ambidextrous,  eh?  Catch  this.  Now,  throw 
it  in  again  —  left  hand." 

Pip  did  so,  wondering. 

"Do  you  ever  bowl  left-handed?"  was  the 
next  inquiry. 

"No,  sir." 

"Well,  just  come  to  a  net  for  a  few  minutes. 
You  other  people  can  cut  off  to  tea  now." 

The  tea-bell  had  just  rung,  and  the  field  was 
emptying  rapidly. 

"Now,  my  son,"  said  the  master,  "you  are 
going  to  bowl  to  me  with  your  left  hand.  Plug 
them  in." 

Pip  did  so.  His  first  ball  was  a  fast  half-volley, 
and  was  promptly  treated  as  it  deserved. 

"Now,  another.  Take  my  ball.  The  ground- 
boy  will  field  yours." 


HAM  73 

Pip,  full  of  importance  at  having  some  one  to 
field  for  him,  bowled  again.  This  time  he  sent 
down  a  good  length  ball.  Mr.  Hanbury  stepped 
out  to  it,  played  right  outside  it,  and  next  mo- 
ment his  leg-stump  was  lying  on  the  ground.  He 
was  clean  bowled. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PIP   FINDS   HIS   VOCATION 

MR.  HANBURY  made  no  comment,  but  re- 
quested Pip  to  bowl  again.  "A  good  fast  one," 
he  said. 

Pip,  with  the  most  natural  air  in  the  world, 
obeyed  orders.  This  time  he  bowled  a  yorker, 
somewhere  in  the  direction  of  the  off-stump. 
Mr.  Hanbury  did  not  trouble  to  play  it,  but 
chopped  his  bat  down  into  the  block-hole  to  stop 
it.  The  ball,  however,  chiefly  owing  to  the  fact 
that  it  curled  some  inches  in  the  air,  missed  his 
bat  and  bowled  him  off  his  pads. 

"One  more,"  said  Ham. 

Pip,  divided  between  elation  at  bowling  a  mas- 
ter and  apprehension  as  to  the  consequences 
thereof,  delivered  his  fourth  ball  —  a  full  pitch 
to  the  off  this  time.  Bad  ball  as  it  was,  the  curl 
in  the  air  was  most  apparent;  but  Ham,  who 
took  the  measure  of  most  bowling  after  the 
third  ball,  stepped  across,  and,  playing  appar- 
ently about  three  inches  inside  it,  caught  it 
fairly  and  sent  it  flying. 

"That  will  do,  thanks,"  he  said.  "Now,  run 
off  to  tea,  but  drop  into  my  study  after  prayers 
for  a  minute." 


PIP  FINDS   HIS  VOCATION         75 

Pip  made  his  appearance  very  promptly  after 
prayers. 

Mr.  Hanbury,  who  was  smoking  and  correcting 
exercises,  nodded  to  a  chair,  and  after  a  few  min- 
utes' silence,  broken  by  sundry  grunts  and  the 
thud  of  a  merciless  blue  pencil,  put  down  his 
work  and  addressed  Pip. 

"Now,  my  man,  I  want  to  have  a  word  with 
you.  You  are  what  is  known  as  a  natural  bowler. 
Why  you  did  n't  find  it  out  for  yourself  I  can't 
think.  Did  n't  you,  in  your  extreme  infancy, 
often  feel  an  inclination  to  stir  your  porridge 
with  your  left  hand?" 

Pip  reflected;  and  sundry  nursery  incidents,  of 
no  previous  import,  suddenly  acquired  a  new 
significance  in  his  mind. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  did.  But  my  nur— 
my  people  used  to  tell  me  not  to,  and  I  got  out 
of  the  way  of  it,  I  suppose." 

"They  always  do  it,"  said  Ham  sympatheti- 
cally. "Now,  listen.  A  man  may  be  the  fastest 
and  straightest  bowler  in  the  world,  but  unless 
he  has  pitch  he  has  nothing,  nothing,  nothing! 
A  straight  ball  is  no  good  if  it  is  a  long  hop 
or  a  full  pitch,  and  the  only  way  to  acquire  the 
art  is  to  practise  and  practise  and  practise  until 
you  can  drop  the  ball  on  a  threepenny-bit  at 
twenty  yards.  Now,  if  I  take  you  for  half  an 
hour  at  a  net  after  tea  for  the  next  few  weeks, 


76  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

will  you  agree  to  do  something  for  me  in  re- 
turn?" 

Pip  agreed,  without  asking  what  the  conditions 
might  be. 

"  What  I  want  you  to  do,"  said  Ham,  "  is  this." 
He  led  the  way  to  the  bookshelves  at  the  side 
of  the  room.  "I  want  you  to  read  some  books 
for  me.  Any  books  will  do,  but  you  must  read 
something.  I  should  advise  you  to  begin  on 
something  easy.  Here  are  three.  This  one  is 
called  'Treasure  Island';  this  big  one  is  'The 
Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes ' ;  and  the  yellow 
one  is  'Vice  Versa.'  (Don't  be  afraid:  it's  all 
English  inside.)  Which  will  you  have?" 

Pip  was  somewhat  dazed  by  this  eccentric 
man's  behaviour,  but  he  had  sufficient  sense  left 
to  choose  the  smallest  of  the  proffered  volumes. 
Then  he  said  timidly,  — 

"\Vould  I  have  any  chance  of  getting  into  the 
Junior  House  Eleven,  sir?" 

"M'  well,  perhaps.  Now,  hook  it.  After  tea 
to-morrow  at  my  net,  mind." 

Later  in  the  evening  Mr.  Hanbury,  enjoying 
the  hospitality  of  Uncle  Bill,  remarked, — 

"I'm  sorry  the  St.  Dunstan's  match  is  over 
for  this  year." 

"Why?"  inquired  his  host. 

"Because  we  could  have  beaten  them.  Any- 
how, we  shall  do  it  next  year." 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION        77 

"Why  this  confidence?" 

"Because,"  said  Hanbury,  "I  propose  this  day 
month  to  introduce  to  the  school  the  finest  bowler 
that  it  has  seen  since  old  Hewett's  time." 

Pip  stuck  to  his  side  of  the  bargain  manfully. 
He  religiously  waded  through  "Treasure  Island," 
marking  with  a  pencil  the  place  when  he  knocked 
off  work  for  the  day.  The  fascination  of  the 
story  affected  even  his  barbaric  mind,  but  the 
effort  of  taking  it  all  in  more  than  outweighed 
the  pleasure.  "Sherlock  Holmes"  he  voted  dull; 
he  made  no  conjectures  as  to  the  solution  of  each 
mystery,  and  consequently  the  pleasure  of  antici- 
pating the  result  was  lost  to  him.  "Vice  Versa'* 
pleased  him  most,  though  the  idea  of  a  girl  run- 
ning at  large  in  a  boys'  school  struck  his  celi- 
bate mind  as  "utter  rot." 

But  in  return  for  all  this  aimless  drudgery  he 
had  the  unspeakable  joy  of  bowling  to  Ham 
every  night  for  a  short  time  after  tea,  at  a  quiet 
net  in  a  corner  of  the  big  field.  The  term  was 
not  nearly  half  over,  and  already  he  could  bring 
the  ball  down  with  tolerable  certainty  some- 
where near  a  postcard  laid  for  him  upon  the  pitch, 
five  times  out  of  seven,  —  and  that,  too,  without 
in  any  way  spoiling  the  curl  in  the  air  by  which 
his  teacher  appeared  to  set  so  much  store.  He 
was  also  permitted  to  bowl  one  fast  ball  per  over, 
an  indulgence  which  comforted  him  mightily; 


78  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

for  like  every  other  cricketer  who  ever  lived,  he 
imagined  that  he  was  a  heaven-sent  fast  bowler. 

To  his  unutterable  disappointment  he  was  not 
chosen  for  his  Junior  House  Eleven,  though  it 
included  such  confirmed  dotards  as  Mumford. 
The  truth  was  that  Mr.  Hanbury  had  sent  for 
Marsh,  the  captain  of  Pip's  house,  and  asked 
as  a  personal  favour  that  Pip  might  not  be  put 
in  the  team. 

"I  know  these  Junior  House-Matches,"  he 
said.  "The  boy  will  either  not  be  put  on  to  bowl 
at  all,  or  else  he  will  be  kept  on  for  forty  or  fifty 
overs,  tiring  himself  out  and  undoing  all  the 
work  of  the  past  five  weeks.  Leave  him  with  me 
for  another  fortnight,  and  we  '11  see.  I  can't  have 
growing  plants  strained  in  any  way." 

"Is  he  really  good,  sir?"  said  Marsh.  "I 
have  n't  seen  him  play  for  a  long  time,  and  then 
he  seemed  no  better  than  most  of  the  other 
kids." 

"That  was  when  he  was  bowling  right- 
handed,"  said  Ham.  "Come  and  see  him  to- 
morrow, at  my  net.  Look  here,  I  will  make  a  bar- 
gain with  you.  When  is  the  House-Match  proper, 
the  Final,  the  big  affair,  between  you  and  the 
Hittites?" 

"A  fortnight  on  Tuesday,  sir." 

"Well,  you  may  play  him  in  that  match,  on 
the  understanding  that  he  is  not  to  bowl  for 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION         79 

more  than  five  overs  at  a  time.  I'll  have  him 
in  good  order  for  you,  but  he  must  n't  be  over- 
worked." 

Marsh,  after  a  glance  at  Pip's  form  at  Ham's 
net  next  day,  readily  agreed  to  the  proposi- 
tion. 

A  week  later  Pip  was  informed  by  Mumford, 
during  the  French  hour,  of  a  curious  clerical 
error  in  the  list  containing  the  names  of  the 
Hivite  House  Eleven,  which  had  been  put  up 
that  morning.  Marsh,  it  appeared,  in  a  fit  of 
laughable  absent-mindedness,  had  filled  the  last 
place  in  the  list  with  the  name  of  Pip,  instead 
of  that  of  one  Elliot,  who  had  occupied  that 
position  in  the  previous  round. 

"Rum  mistake  to  make,"  said  Mumford,  with 
obvious  sincerity. 

"Very,"  said  Pip  shortly. 

"Rather  a  jest,"  continued  the  imaginative 
Mumford,  "  if  he  did  n't  notice  it,  and  you  turned 
out  on  the  day  with  the  rest  of  the  Eleven 
instead  of  Elliott!" 

"Jolly  comic!"  said  Pip,  without  enthusiasm. 
He  was  a  modest  youth,  but,  like  other  and 
older  men,  he  derived  no  pleasure  from  hearing 
his  low  opinion  of  himself  so  heartily  endorsed 
by  his  friends. 

However,  his  name  remained  on  the  list,  and 
on  the  great  day  he  did  turn  out  with  the  Eleven, 


80  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

going  in  last  and  being  bowled  first  ball,  much 
to  the  gratification  of  Mr.  Elliott. 

The  Hivites  made  a  hundred  and  seventy- 
eight,  —  not  a  bad  score,  as  house-matches  go. 
Then  the  Hittites  took  the  field.  They  sent  in 
a  red-headed  youth  named  Evans,  and  a  long, 
lean  individual  who  rejoiced  in  the  thoroughly 
incongruous  nickname  of  "Tiny."  He  played 
with  an  appallingly  straight  bat,  but  seldom  took 
liberties  with  the  bowling. 

The  opening  of  the  innings  was  not  eventful. 
House-matches  are  very  much  alike  as  a  class. 
Everybody  knows  everybody  else's  game  to  a 
nicety,  and  the  result  is  usually  a  question  of 
nerves.  Tiny  and  Evans  poked  systematically 
and  exasperatingly  at  every  ball  sent  down;  the 
clumps  of  dark-blue  Hittites  and  pink  Hivites 
round  the  field  subsided  into  recumbent  apathy; 
and  Pip,  who  was  fielding  at  short  slip,  began 
to  feel  that  if  house-matches  were  all  as  dull  as 
this  one  he  might  get  through  without  further 
disgracing  himself. 

But  Marsh,  the  bowler,  was  also  a  cricketer. 
He  saw  that  Evans,  who  was  not  naturally  a 
defensive  player,  was  getting  very  tired  of  pok- 
ing to  order,  and  resolved  to  tempt  him.  He 
accordingly  sent  down  one  of  the  worst  balls  ever 
seen  on  the  school  pitch.  Evans  wavered  for 
a  moment,  but,  remembering  his  orders,  let  it  go 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION         81 

by.  It  was  followed  by  another,  exactly  like  it: 
once  again  Evans  restrained  his  itching  bat.  But 
the  third  was  too  much  for  him,  and  he  smote 
it  incontinently  over  the  ropes,  to  the  huge  delight 
of  the  Hittites. 

"Now  he's  got  his  eye  in!"  remarked  Master 
Simpson  of  the  Hittites  to  Master  Mumford, 
who  was  sitting  beside  him  on  the  railings. 

"Rot!"  replied  that  youth,  as  in  duty  bound, 
but  without  conviction.  "Any  ass  could  see  that 
Marsh  gave  him  that  ball  on  purpose." 

"On  purpose?  What  for?"  inquired  Simpson 
doubtfully. 

"What  a  question  to  ask!"  replied  Mumford, 
casting  about  for  an  answer.  "Of  course  you 
don't  know  enough  about  the  game,  but  the 
reason  why  Marsh  bowled  that  particular  ball 
was  —  Hooray !  Hoor-a-a-ay-ee-ah-ooh !  Well 
held,  sir!  What  did  I  say,  young  Simpson?" 

For  Evans,  throwing  caution  to  the  winds,  had 
lashed  out  at  a  good  ball,  the  last  of  Marsh's 
over,  and  it  was  now  reposing  safely  in  the  hands 
of  Mid-off . 

Another  disaster  befell  the  Hittites  a  few  min- 
utes later.  Tiny,  who  had  been  stepping  out  and 
playing  forward  with  the  irritating  accuracy  of 
an  automaton,  played  just  inside  a  ball  from  the 
Hivite  fast  bowler,  Martin.  The  ball  glanced  off 
his  bat,  and  almost  at  the  same  moment  Pip  be- 


82  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

came  conscious  of  a  violent  pain,  suggestive  of 
red-hot  iron,  in  his  right  arm-pit.  He  clapped  his 
hand  to  the  part  affected,  and  to  his  astonish- 
ment drew  forth  the  ball,  to  a  storm  of  applause 
from  the  delighted  Hivites,  while  Tiny  retired, 
speechless  and  scarlet,  to  the  Pavilion. 

But  trouble  was  in  store  for  the  Hivites.  The 
two  new  batsmen  were  the  opposing  captain,  one 
Hewett,  a  smiter  of  uncompromising  severity, 
and  a  somewhat  amorphous  and  pimply  youth, 
destitute  of  nerves,  who  was  commonly  ad- 
dressed as  "Scrabbler."  These  twain  treated  the 
firm  of  Marsh  and  Martin  with  a  disrespect  that 
amounted  almost  to  discourtesy.  The  score  rose 
from  forty-five  to  a  hundred,  and  from  a  hundred 
to  a  hundred  and  thirty-five,  notwithstanding 
the  substitution  of  two  fresh  bowlers  of  estab- 
lished reputation  and  fair  merit.  The  Hivites 
began  to  look  unhappy.  Their  fielding,  which 
hitherto  had  been  well  up  to  the  mark,  now 
deteriorated ;  and  when  the  Scrabbler  was  missed 
at  the  wicket  from  a  snick  that  was  heard  all  over 
the  ground,  Master  Simpson  became  so  offensive 
that  Mumford  found  it  necessary  to  withdraw 
out  of  earshot. 

At  this  point  Marsh,  having  obeyed  the  law 
which  says  that  when  your  first-eleven  colour- 
men  have  failed,  you  must  try  your  second-eleven 
colour-men;  and  when  you  have  done  that,  you 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION         83 

may  begin  to  speculate  on  outsiders,  decided  to 
put  Pip  on.  He  accordingly  tossed  him  the  ball 
at  the  beginning  of  the  next  over. 

Pip  had  been  living  for  this  moment  ever  since 
his  name  had  appeared  in  the  list,  and  he  had 
carefully  rehearsed  all  the  movements  necessary 
to  the  occasion.  He  would  pick  up  the  ball  negli- 
gently, hand  his  cap  to  the  umpire,  and  place  his 
field  with  a  few  comprehensive  motions  of  his  arm. 
He  would  then  toss  down  a  few  practice  balls  to 
the  wicket-keeper,  and,  after  a  final  glance  round 
the  field,  proceed  to  bring  the  Hittite  innings  to 
an  inglorious  conclusion. 

But,  alas!  whether  it  was  from  insufficient 
rehearsal,  or  blue  funk,  Pip's  performance  was 
a  dreadful  failure.  He  forgot  to  hand  his  cap  to 
the  umpire;  he  made  no  attempt  to  place  his 
field ;  and  so  far  was  he  from  casting  cool  glances 
around  him  before  commencing  his  onslaught  that 
he  was  only  prevented,  by  the  heavy  hand  of  the 
adjacent  Scrabbler,  from  beginning  to  bowl  be- 
fore the  fielders  had  crossed  over. 

And  when  he  did  begin,  the  ball  which  was  to 
have  made  a  crumbling  ruin  of  Hewett's  wicket 
proved  to  be  a  fast  full -pitch  to  leg;  the  second 
ball  was  a  long-hop  to  the  off;  and  the  third, 
which  had  originally  been  intended  to  complete 
Pip's  hat-trick,  nearly  annihilated  the  gentleman 
who  was  fielding  point.  Marsh  was  very  patient, 


84  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

and  made  no  comment  as  ball  after  ball  was 
despatched  to  the  boundary.  He  would  have 
liked  to  give  the  boy  time  to  find  his  feet,  but  this 
sort  of  thing  was  too  expensive.  After  two  in- 
glorious overs  Pip  retired  once  more  to  second 
slip,  with  his  inscrutable  countenance  as  inscrut- 
able as  ever,  but  his  heart  almost  bursting  be- 
neath his  white  shirt,  with  shame  and  humilia- 
tion and  a  downright  grief.  It  was  the  first  tragedy 
of  his  life. 

But  he  had  his  revenge  a  moment  later.  The 
Scrabbler,  with  a  pretty  late  cut,  despatched  a 
fast  ball  from  Martin  straight  to  Pip.  Pip 
automatically  clapped  his  heels  together  and 
ducked  down  to  the  ball,  but  just  a  moment 
too  late.  He  felt  the  ball  glance  off  each  instep 
and  pass  behind  him.  The  Scrabbler 's  partner, 
seeing  that  Pip  had  not  stopped  the  ball,  called 
to  him  to  come;  then,  seeing  that  the  ball  had 
only  rolled  a  few  yards,  called  to  him  to  go  back. 
But  Pip  by  this  time  had  reached  the  ball.  The 
Scrabbler  made  a  frantic  leap  back  into  safety. 
Pip's  long  arm  shot  out,  and  as  the  batsman 
hung  for  a  moment  between  heaven  and  earth 
in  his  passage  back  to  the  crease,  he  saw  wickets 
and  bails  disintegrate  themselves  in  wild  con- 
fusion in  response  to  a  thunderbolt  despatched 
from  Pip's  left  hand  at  a  range  of  six  yards. 

The  partnership  was  over  at  last,  and  the 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION         85 

Hittites  offered  little  more  resistance.  They 
were  all  out  in  another  half  hour,  for  a  total  of 
two  hundred  and  fifteen,  —  a  score  long  enough 
to  cause  the  Hivites  to  confer  gloomily  among 
themselves  and  ignore  the  unseemly  joy  of  the 
Hittites.  So  play  ended  for  the  day. 

The  match  was  to  be  resumed  on  the  following 
Thursday,  two  days  later.  On  Wednesday  eve- 
ning Ham  sat  smoking  in  his  room.  He  was  ex- 
pecting Pip,  who  generally  chose  that  time  for 
returning  works  of  fiction.  On  this  occasion  Pip 
was  rather  long  in  coming,  and  when  he  did  come 
he  was  not  the  usual  Pip.  He  had  not  encoun- 
tered his  form-master  in  private  since  the  house- 
match,  and  was  uncertain  of  his  reception.  Only 
the  strictest  sense  of  duty  brought  his  faltering 
feet  to  Mr.  Hanbury's  door,  and  it  was  with 
downcast  eye  and  muffled  voice  that  he  proffered 
"Handley  Cross"  in  exchange  for  "The  Jungle 
Book." 

Ham  knew  his  man,  and  discreetly  avoided 
cricketing  topics  for  the  first  five  minutes.  He 
talked  of  Mr.  Jorrocks,  of  Mowgli,  of  the  weather 
—  of  anything,  in  fact,  rather  than  half -volleys 
and  full-pitches.  It  was  Pip,  with  his  usual 
directness,  who  opened  the  subject. 

"Do  you  think  it  will  keep  fine,  sir?" 

"Sweltering  hot,  I  expect." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Then  Pip  said — 


86  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  ... 

"I'm  —  I'm  awfully  sorry,  sir." 
Hanbury  understood,  and  he  glowed  inwardly 
to  think  that  the  first  feeling  of  this  small  boy, 
whose  very  soul  was  wrung  by  the  knowledge 
that  he  had  received  his  first  chance  in  life  and 
thrown  it  away,  should  be  one  of  regret  for 
having  disappointed  his  teacher  rather  than  one 
of  commiseration  for  himself.  Mr.  Hanbury  was 
still  young  and  very  human,  and  he  felt  glad 
that  he  had  read  Pip  aright,  and  not  pinned  his 
faith  to  the  wrong  sort  of  boy. 

"My  dear  man,"  he  said,  "y°u  did  exactly 
what  I  expected  you  to  do  —  no  more  and  no 
less.  You  bowled  erratically  and  fielded  splen- 
didly." (The  idea  that  he  had  fielded  well  had 
never  occurred  to  Pip.)  "I  was  sorry  about  the 
bowling,  but  I  knew  you  must  go  through  the 
experience.  The  best  bowler  in  the  world  never 
remembered  to  bowl  with  his  head  his  first  match. 
He  just  did  what  you  did  —  shut  his  eyes  and 
plugged  them  in  as  hard  as  he  could." 

Pip  nodded.  That  was  exactly  what  he  had 
done. 

"That's  what  I  meant  when  I  told  you  the 
other  day  that  your  education  was  not  half 
completed.  I  meant  that  you  might  be  able  to 
knock  over  a  stump  at  a  net  all  day  and  yet  not 
be  able  to  keep  your  head  before  a  crowd.  You 
will  do  well  now  you  have  found  your  feet.  You 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION         87 

fielded  like  a  man  yesterday,  and  you  '11  bowl  like 
a  demon  to-morrow.  I  expect  great  things  of 
you,  so  keep  your  tail  up,  young  man,  and  — 
By  Jove,  I  promised  to  see  Mr.  Mortimer  before 
nine!  Excuse  me  a  moment." 

Ham  bolted  from  the  room. 

For  Pip,  the  imperturbable,  the  impenetra- 
ble, was  —  horresco  referens  —  in  tears !  After  all, 
he  was  barely  fifteen,  and  he  had  endured  a  good 
deal  already  —  the  quiet  disappointment  of 
Marsh,  the  thinly  veiled  scorn  of  the  deposed 
Elliott,  and  the  half -amused  contempt  of  the  rest 
of  the  house.  He  had  taken  them  all  in  his  usual 
impassive  way,  and  the  critics  who  gathered  in 
knots  after  the  game  and  condemned  Marsh  for 
putting  "  an  absolute  kid  "  into  the  House  Eleven, 
never  suspected  that  the  "kid"  in  question 
was  struggling,  beneath  an  indifferent  exterior, 
between  an  intense  desire  for  sympathy  and  a 
stubborn  determination  not  to  show  it.  And  so 
these  words  from  his  beloved  Ham,  from  whom 
he  had  expected  at  the  best  disappointed  silence, 
brought  to  his  overwrought  soul  that  relief 
which  he  so  badly  needed;  and  a  large  tear, 
trickling  down  his  nose,  warned  Mr.  Hanbury 
to  remember  a  pressing  engagement  elsewhere. 

Pip  soon  recovered. 

"  Lucky  Ham  had  to  go  out  then,"  he  solilo- 
quised, "or  he'd  have  seen  me  blub." 


88  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

Ham  returned  after  a  discreet  interval,  and 
after  a  few  words  of  wisdom  and  encouragement 
dismissed  Pip  to  bed  in  a  greatly  improved  frame 
of  mind. 

The  Hivites  began  their  second  innings  thirty- 
seven  runs  to  the  bad.  This  fact  had  impressed 
itself  upon  the  mind  of  Marsh,  the  captain,  and 
he  decided,  hi  his  vigorous  way,  that  if  anything 
was  to  be  done  he  must  do  it  himself.  He  accord- 
ingly went  in  first,  accompanied  by  a  confirmed 
"  stone-waller,"  and  proceeded  to  break  the 
hearts  of  the  Hittite  bowlers.  Nothing  could 
shake  the  steadiness  of  the  two  players.  The 
most  beautiful  balls  were  sent  down  to  them  — 
balls  which  pitched  halfway  and  wavered  allur- 
ingly, waiting  to  be  despatched  to  square-leg, 
half -volleys,  full-pitches,  wides;  but  nothing 
would  tempt  them  to  take  liberties.  Marsh 
played  sound  cricket,  and  made  runs;  but  his 
companion  played  a  purely  defensive  game,  his 
performance  being  accentuated  by  a  series  of 
sharp  knocks,  or  dull  thuds,  according  as  he 
played  the  ball  with  his  bat  or  his  body.  The 
arrears  had  been  exactly  wiped  oft7  when  this 
hero,  in  endeavouring  to  interpose  as  much  of 
his  adamantine  person  as  possible  between  his 
wicket  and  a  leg-break,  lurched  heavily  back- 
wards and  mowed  down  all  three  stumps.  He 
retired  amid  applause. 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION         89 

But  the  Hivites  were  not  out  of  the  wood.  The 
next  two  batsmen  succumbed  rather  unluckily, 
the  one  leg-before,  the  other  caught  at  the  wicket, 
—  the  two  ways  in  which  no  batsman  is  ever 
really  out,  —  and  a  rot  set  in.  Marsh,  it  was 
true,  was  playing  the  innings  of  his  life.  All  bowl- 
ing seemed  to  come  alike  to  him,  and  he  usually 
contrived  to  score  a  single  at  the  end  of  the  over 
and  so  prolonged  the  lives  of  his  various  fluttered 
partners.  But  he  could  not  do  everything,  and 
when  Pip  came  in  last,  the  score  was  only  a 
hundred  and  five,  of  which  Marsh  had  made 
seventy. 

Pip's  previous  performance  had  not  been  such 
as  to  justify  any  unbounded  confidence  in  his 
supporters;  but  he  certainly  shaped  better  this 
time.  He  had  a  good  eye,  and  by  resolutely 
placing  his  bat  in  the  path  of  the  approaching 
ball  he  achieved  the  twofold  result  of  keeping 
up  his  wicket  and  goading  the  bowlers  to  im- 
potent frenzy.  Once  he  survived  a  whole  maiden 
over,  though  he  was  bombarded  with  long  hops, 
tempted  with  slows,  and  intimidated  with  full- 
pitches  directed  at  his  head.  He  stood  perfectly 
still;  the  ball  rebounded  from  his  tough  young 
person  again  and  again;  and  now  and  then, 
when  the  angle  of  incidence  and  the  angle  of 
reflection  were  very  obtuse  indeed,  he  and  Marsh 
ran  a  leg-bye.  The  score  crept  up,  Marsh  began 


90  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  ... 

to  get  near  his  century,  and  the  Hivites  again 
plucked  up  heart. 

After  batting  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
Pip,  much  to  his  own  surprise,  scored  a  run  — 
four,  to  be  precise  —  due  to  an  entirely  inadvert- 
ent snick  to  the  off  boundary.  This  brought  the 
score  up  to  a  hundred  and  thirty.  Directly  after- 
wards Marsh  completed  his  hundred,  with  a 
mighty  drive  over  the  ropes,  and  "e'en  the  ranks 
of  Tuscany,"  as  Uncle  Bill  observed,  "could 
scarce  forbear  to  cheer.'* 

After  that  Marsh,  feeling  uncertain  as  to  how 
long  his  companion  intended  to  stay,  determined 
to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shone.  Accordingly 
he  began  to  hit.  Four  fours  in  one  over  brought 
on  a  slow  bowler,  who  had  to  be  taken  off  again 
as  soon  as  possible;  for  even  Pip  despised  him, 
and  pulled  one  of  his  off -balls  to  square-leg  for 
three.  But  this  state  of  affairs  was  too  good  to 
last.  Marsh,  who  had  been  smiting  all  and 
sundry  since  completing  his  hundred,  ran  out  to 
a  slow  ball  from  the  Hittite  captain  and  missed 
it.  The  wicket-keeper  whipped  off  the  bails  in  a 
flash,  and  the  innings  was  over.  The  full  score 
was  a  hundred  and  fifty-seven,  of  which  Marsh 
had  made  a  hundred  and  seventeen.  Pip  scored 
seven,  not  out. 

Verily,  this  was  a  match.  The  Hittites  only 
wanted  a  hundred  and  twenty  to  win;  but  a 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION        91 

hundred  and  twenty  is  a  big  figure  to  compile 
out  of  the  fourth  innings  of  a  house-match, 
when  nerves  are  snapping  like  fiddle-strings. 
However,  it  was  generally  considered  that  the 
Hittites  would  win  by  about  five  wickets,  and 
Master  Simpson,  by  wagering  an  ingenious 
musical  instrument,  composed  mainly  of  half  a 
walnut-shell  and  a  wooden  match  (invaluable  for 
irritating  nervous  masters),  against  two  fives- 
balls  and  a  moribund  white  mouse  belonging  to 
Mumford,  in  support  of  his  own  house,  had  just 
brought  himself  within  the  sphere  of  operations 
of  the  Anti-Gambling  League,  when  the  Hivites 
went  out  to  the  field  for  the  last  time. 

Marsh  had  found  an  opportunity  for  a  hurried 
consultation  with  Mr.  Hanbury. 

"It's  no  use  your  going  on  to  bowl  at  pres- 
ent," said  his  adviser.  "You  can't  knock  up  a 
hundred  and  expect  to  take  wickets  directly 
afterwards."  4 

"Whom  shall  I  begin  with,  sir?  I  thought  of 
Martin  and  Watkins." 

"Watkins  is  a  broken  reed,  but  he'll  last  for 
three  overs.  Take  him  off  soon,  and  if  you  are 
not  ready  yourself,  give  our  young  friend  Pip 
another  trial." 

Marsh  cocked  a  respectful  but  surprised  eye  at 
his  master. 

Hanbury  saw  the  look.    "You'll  find  him  a 


92  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  ... 

very  different  performer  now,"  he  said.  "That 
little  bit  of  batting  will  have  steadied  him  nicely. 
But  don't  keep  him  on  too  long,  even  though  he 
takes  wickets.  Give  him  a  rest  after  five  overs, 
and  put  him  on  again  later.  Make  him  place  his 
own  field:  the  experience  will  be  useful  to  him." 

Things  turned  out  pretty  well  as  Mr.  Hanbury 
had  prophesied.  Martin,  a  steady  performer, 
kept  the  runs  down  at  his  end;  and  Watkins,  the 
broken  reed,  bowled  exactly  three  good  overs,  in 
the  second  of  which  he  removed  the  Hittite  cap- 
tain's leg-bail  with  a  ball  which,  as  Uncle  Bill 
observed,  "would  have  beaten  the  Old  Man  him- 
self." After  that  he  fell  away,  and  having  been 
hit  three  times  for  four  in  his  fourth  over,  was 
taken  off. 

Marsh  was  still  feeling  the  effects  of  his  in- 
nings, and  decided  to  take  another  ten  minutes' 
rest.  He  accordingly  electrified  players  and 
spectators  alike  by  tossing  the  ball  to  Pip. 

"We  shall  win  by  nine  wickets  now,"  said 
Master  Simpson  with  decision  —  "not  five." 

"My  dear  ass,"  replied  Mumford,  "he's  only 
put  Pip  on  for  an  over  to  let  Martin  change  ends." 

"Well,  if  he  bowls  as  he  did  last  innings  Martin 
won't  get  the  chance,  'cause  Pip  will  give  us  all 
the  runs  we  want  in  one  over.  Let's  see:  six 
sixes  are  thirty-six,  say  ten  wides,  and  —  all 
right,  lousy  swine!" 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION         93 

This  last  remark  was  delivered  from  a  nettle- 
bed  behind  the  railings,  and  its  warmth  was  due 
to  the  fact  that  the  speaker  had  been  neatly 
tilted  backwards  by  a  well-directed  jog  from  the 
incensed  Mr.  Mumford's  elbow. 

But  Pip  had  no  intention  of  giving  away  runs 
this  time.  He  was  proud  of  the  confidence  in 
him  that  had  been  shown;  he  was  burning  to  re- 
trieve the  disgrace  of  his  last  performance;  and, 
best  of  all,  his  glorious  spell  of  batting  had 
soothed  his  nerves  and  accustomed  him  to  public 
appearances.  He  arranged  his  field  quietly,  sent 
a  couple  of  balls  down  to  the  wicket-keeper,  and 
even  remembered  to  hand  his  cap  to  the  umpire. 

There  was  a  hush  all  around  the  ground  as  he 
ran  up  to  the  wicket  to  deliver  his  first  ball. 

Things  were  certainly  in  a  critical  state.  Of 
the  hundred  and  twenty  runs  required  to  win, 
the  Hittites  had  obtained  forty-five  for  the  loss 
of  one  wicket.  If  the  present  pair  could  add 
another  thirty  before  being  separated  the  match 
was  practically  safe.  It  was  felt  that  Marsh  was 
playing  a  desperate  game  in  risking  everything 
on  the  efforts  of  such  a  tyro  as  Pip;  and  when 
the  Scrabbler  took  his  stand  and  prepared  to 
punish  his  presumptuous  folly,  the  Hittites  made 
ready  to  shout,  and  the  Hivites  to  decamp  to 
their  house. 

Pip's  head  was  quite  clear  this  time.   His  first 


94  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

two  balls  were  to  be  as  straight  as  possible  and 
a  good  length;  the  third,  if  possible,  was  to  be  a 
fast  yorker;  the  fourth,  a  good  length  ball;  the 
fifth,  slow  and  curly;  and  the  last,  Ham  had 
told  him,  could  be  anything  he  pleased. 

He  delivered  his  first  ball  as  per  programme. 
The  Scrabbler  stepped  well  out  to  it,  calculating, 
with  his  long  reach,  to  be  able  to  smother  it 
comfortably.  Much  to  his  surprise  his  bat  met 
with  no  resistance,  for  he  had  planted  it  quite 
two  inches  outside.  The  ball  passed  between 
his  bat  and  his  legs,  whizzed  past  the  leg  stump, 
and  was  in  the  wicket-keeper's  hands  in  a  mo- 
ment. The  bails  were  whipped  off,  and  the 
Scrabbler,  who  had  dragged  his  foot  right  over 
the  crease  in  his  tremendous  lunge  forward,  was 
out,  stumped  as  neatly  as  possible. 

A  mighty  shout  went  up  as  the  Scrabbler 
retired.  Two  for  forty-five. 

Another  batsman  took  his  place.  Pip  delivered 
a  ball  almost  identical  with  the  first.  This  time 
the  batsman,  a  stumpy  person,  not  possessed  of 
the  Scrabbler's  reach,  played  back,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  returning  the  ball  to  the  bowler. 
Pleased  with  this  success,  and  desiring  to  repeat 
it,  he  made  the  fatal  mistake  of  deciding  on  his 
next  stroke  before  the  ball  was  bowled.  Conse- 
quently he  played  back  to  a  fast  yorker,  which, 
you  will  remember,  came  third  on  Pip's  schedule. 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION         95 

When  he  turned  round  his  middle  stump  was 
lying  on  the  ground,  and  the  wicket-keeper  was 
groping  ecstatically  for  the  bails. 

Three  for  forty-five. 

The  next  man  was  the  heavy  hitter  of  the 
eleven.  It  was  his  custom  to  smite  every  ball 
sent  down,  including  the  first,  with  uncompromis- 
ing severity.  On  this  occasion,  however,  he  was 
sufficiently  impressed  with  the  solemnity  of  the 
occasion  to  endeavour  to  block  the  first  ball, 
which  was  Pip's  fourth,  —  a  straight,  good- 
length,  orthodox  delivery,  rather  on  the  short 
side.  The  ball  rebounded  from  his  rigid  bat,  and 
Point  just  failed  to  reach  it.  A  little  shudder  ran 
round  the  ground.  The  slogger,  observing  his 
escape,  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  might  as 
well  be  outed  for  a  slogger  as  a  poker,  and  lashed 
out  widely  at  ball  number  five,  which  was  a  slow 
and  curly  one.  Now,  since  Pip,  who  felt  the  real 
bowling  instinct,  which  tells  a  man  what  the 
batsman  expects  (and  prompts  him  to  bowl  some- 
thing entirely  different),  surging  up  hotter  and 
stronger  in  his  brain  every  moment,  bowled  when 
still  a  good  two  yards  behind  the  crease,  the  lash- 
out  came  much  too  soon,  and  the  slogger's  bat 
was  waving  wildly  in  the  air  what  time  his  bails 
were  being  disturbed  by  a  beautiful  curly  ball 
which  bumped,  very  very  gently,  into  his  off- 
stump. 


96  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  „ 

Four  for  forty-five. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  shout  that  arose 
now.  Previous  vocal  efforts  had  merely  ex- 
pressed pleased  surprise  at  a  good  piece  of  bowl- 
ing, and  had  voiced  the  gratifying  fact  that  the 
Hivites,  though  about  to  be  beaten,  would  not 
be  disgraced;  but  the  tornado  which  now  rent 
the  heavens  signified  that  Pip  had  set  the  match 
on  its  legs  again. 

Our  hero  had  now  bowled  five  balls,  all  with 
his  head.  He  had  been  holding  himself  in,  bowl- 
ing not  as  he  wanted  to  bowl,  but  as  Ham  had 
told  him  to  bowl,  and  as  he  knew  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  he  ought  to  bowl.  But  now  he  was  to 
have  his  sixth  ball,  which  he  was  permitted  to 
bowl  in  any  way  he  pleased.  Ham  should  see 
something! 

His  mentor  was  sitting  under  the  trees  with 
Uncle  Bill. 

"What  will  the  infant  phenomenon  give  us 
this  time?"  inquired  the  reverend  gentleman. 

"Something  terrifically  fast,  probably  to  leg," 
replied  Mr.  Hanbury,  who  knew  human  nature. 

He  was  right.  The  ball  caught  the  batsman 
a  resounding  crack  on  the  back  of  the  thigh,  and 
sped  away  to  the  boundary  for  four  —  a  leg-bye. 
So  ended  Pip's  first  over. 

Martin  now  resumed  at  his  end.  Evans,  who 
had  been  a  horrified  and  helpless  spectator  of  his 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION         97 

companions'  downfall,  played  him  in  a  cautious 
manner,  as  became  the  occasion,  intending  to 
sneak  a  run  at  the  end  of  the  over  and  so  face 
the  redoubtable  Pip  himself.  But  it  was  not  to 
be.  In  his  anxiety  to  obtain  the  necessary  run 
he  attempted  to  hit  a  ball  which  he  knew  should 
have  been  let  alone,  and  was  caught  at  cover- 
point.  Five  for  forty-nine. 

Once  more  it  was  Pip's  turn.  He  found  him- 
self confronted  by  another  hard  slogger,  who, 
instead  of  sticking  to  his  last,  trusting  to  his 
eye,  and  running  out  to  hit,  stood  stock-still, 
and  having  solemnly  planted  his  bat  in  what 
he  imagined  was  the  path  of  the  ball,  awaited 
developments.  The  ball,  curling  like  a  boom- 
erang, pitched  slightly  to  leg,  broke  back,  and 
bowled  him.  Six  for  forty-nine. 

The  frenzy  of  the  Hivites  was  becoming  almost 
monotonous,  and  it  was  hardly  capable  of  aug- 
mentation when  Pip  bowled  another  man  with 
his  next  ball,  bringing  his  analysis  up  to  five 
wickets  for  no  runs. 

''The  match  is  over,"  said  Uncle  Bill;  "but 
it  will  be  interesting  to  see  if  he  keeps  it  up  to 
the  end." 

"'Not  for  competition,  but  for  exhibition 
only*  —  now,"  murmured  Hanbury  dreamily. 

The  next  man  held  his  bat  firmly  in  the  block- 
hole,  as  the  best  means  of  combating  the  third 


98  FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

ball  of  the  over,  —  the  fast  yorker,  —  and  with 
the  assistance  of  short-slip,  who  received  the  ball 
in  the  pit  of  his  stomach  and  incontinently 
dropped  it,  disappointed  the  entire  field,  friend 
and  foe  alike,  by  spoiling  Pip's  hat-trick.  The 
batsman,  a  person  of  unorthodox  style,  having 
succeeded  in  despatching  a  yorker  to  slip,  de- 
cided that  the  best  place  for  a  good  length  ball 
would  be  long-leg.  He  accordingly  stepped  in  front 
of  his  wicket  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  his  inten- 
tion into  effect;  but  the  ball,  much  to  his  surprise 
and  indignation,  evaded  the  all-embracing  sweep 
of  bat  and  hit  him  hard  on  both  shins,  with 
the  result  that  he  was  very  properly  given  out 
leg-before-wicket. 

The  spectators  now  realised  that  the  match 
was  as  good  as  over;  but  curiosity  to  see  how 
much  longer  Pip  would  continue  his  extraordi- 
nary entertainment  glued  them  to  the  spot.  Pip 
himself  had  lost  all  consciousness  of  the  presence 
of  others.  All  his  little  soul  was  concentrated  on 
one  idea  —  to  get  the  last  two  wickets  with  the 
two  balls  remaining  to  him. 

The  last  batsman  but  one  took  his  place,  and 
Pip  bowled  his  slow  ball.  The  batsman  watched 
it  as  he  had  been  told  to  do,  and  decided  in  a 
weak  moment  that  it  was  going  to  be  a  good 
length  ball  on  the  off.  This  being  the  case,  he 
proposed  to  make  use  of  his  only  stroke,  a  rather 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION         99 

elaborate  flourish,  which,  if  it  could  be  engineered 
at  precisely  the  right  moment,  occasionally  came 
off  as  a  late  cut.  The  one  error  into  which  this 
lightning  calculator  fell  was  the  belief  that  the 
ball  would  pitch  off  the  wicket.  It  pitched  ab- 
solutely straight,  got  up  remarkably  quickly, 
and,  almost  before  the  nourish  was  half  over, 
bowled  him.  Nine  for  forty-nine. 

The  last  man  walked  out  slowly,  but  he  had 
reached  the  wicket  before  Pip  noticed  him.  For 
Pip  was  plunged  in  thought:  he  had  once  more 
arrived  at  the  last  ball  of  the  over,  the  ball  that 
he  was  to  bowl  in  any  way  he  pleased.  A  good 
deal  —  nay,  everything  —  depended  upon  it.  He 
was  determined  to  bowl  no  more  full-pitches  to 
leg.  A  yorker,  if  straight,  would  almost  certainly 
settle  the  fate  of  this  last  trembling  creature;  but 
then  yorkers  are  not  always  straight.  A  good 
length  ball,  on  the  other  hand,  would  probably 
be  blocked. 

"Man  in,"  said  the  umpire,  and  suddenly  Pip 
made  up  his  mind. 

"His  sixth  ball!"  remarked  Uncle  Bill  under' 
the  trees.  "What  will  it  be  this  time,  I  won- 
der?" 

"If  he  wants  to  do  the  hat-trick,"  said  Han- 
bury,  "he  must  take  some  risks.  No  good  giving 
this  fellow  a  length  ball.  He'll  only  block  it. 
Pip '11  have  to  tempt  him." 


100         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

And  that  is  what  Pip  did.  He  bowled  a  very 
short  ball,  a  very  bad  ball,  a  long-hop  unspeak- 
able, on  the  off  side.  Now,  the  batsman  was 
expecting  a  good  ball,  and  was  prepared  to 
present  to  it  an  immovable  bat.  But  this  thing, 
this  despicable  object  which  lobbed  up  so  tempt- 
ingly, ought  he  to  spare  it?  "Take  no  risks," 
Hewett  had  said;  but  then  Hewett  was  not 
expecting  this  demon  bowler  to  send  down  tosh 
like  this.  Should  he?  Could  he?  Yes  —  no  — 
yes!  He  raised  his  bat  uncertainly,  and  made  a 
half-hearted  pull  at  the  ball.  It  struck  his  bat 
somewhere  on  the  splice,  —  the  curl  in  the  air 
had  deceived  one  more  victim,  —  flew  up  into 
the  air,  and,  when  it  descended,  found  Pip 
waiting  for  it  with  a  pair  of  hands  that  would 
at  that  moment  have  gripped  a  red-hot  cannon- 
ball. 

So  the  innings  ended  for  forty-nine,  and  the 
Hivites  won  by  severity-one  runs.  In  two  overs 
Pip  had  taken  eight  wickets  (doing  the  hat-trick 
incidentally)  for  no  runs.  Verily,  in  a  house- 
match  all  things  are  possible.  He  never  accom- 
plished such  a  feat  again,  though  his  seven 
wickets  for  seven  runs  against  the  Australians 
ten  years  later,  and  his  four  wickets  in  four  balls, 
on  that  historic  occasion  when  the  Gentlemen 
beat  the  Players  by  an  innings,  were  relatively 
far  greater  performances. 


PIP  FINDS  HIS  VOCATION       101 

He  turned  mechanically  to  the  umpire  and 
took  his  cap,  and  was  in  the  act  of  unrolling  his 
sleeves,  when  he  was  suddenly  caught  up, 
whirled  aloft,  and  carried  off  towards  the  pavil- 
ion by  a  seething  wave  of  frenzied  Hivites.  Those 
enthusiasts  who  were  debarred  from  supporting 
any  portion  of  him  contented  themselves  with 
slapping  outlying  parts  of  his  person  and  uttering 
discordant  whoops. 

Somewhere  beneath  his  left  arm-pit  Pip  dis- 
covered the  inflamed  countenance  of  Master 
Mumford. 

"Where's  young  Simpson?"  he  screamed  in 
that  worthy's  ear,  not  so  much  because  he  wished 
to  know  as  to  relieve  the  extreme  tension  of  the 
situation. 

It  was  a  senseless  and  inappropriate  ques- 
tion, but  it  appeared  to  bring  Mumford's  cup 
of  happiness  to  overflowing  point.  Laying  his 
uncombed  head  upon  Pip's  horizontal  stomach, 
with  tears  of  joy  streaming  down  his  cheeks,  he 
gasped,  — 

"H-he  went  down  to  the  house  to  g-get  his 
k-kodak  as  soon  as  y-you  were  put  on  bowling,  so 
as  to  phuph-photograph  the  winning  hit.  And 
oh,  he  s-said  they  would  w-win  by  nine  wickets! 
He  h-has  n't  got  back  yet." 

But  he  was  wrong.  There  stood  Master  Simp- 
son, ready  to  photograph  the  winning  hit.  But, 


102         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

like  the  Briton  and  the  sportsman  that  he  was, 
he  made  the  best  of  a  bad  job  and  photographed 
Pip  instead.  And  an  enlarged  copy  of  that  snap- 
shot hangs  in  Pip's  smoking-room  to-day,  to 
witness  if  I  lie. 


CHAPTER  V 

LINKLATEB 
I 

LINKLATER  came  to  school  after  Pip,  —  one 
year,  to  be  precise,  —  but  by  the  time  that  both 
had  attained  to  the  dignity  of  seniors  they  were 
firm  friends.  They  were  a  curiously  assorted 
couple.  Pip  at  the  age  of  eighteen  was  as  inscrut- 
able and  reserved  as  ever,  though  his  popular- 
ity with  the  school  was  unbounded,  and  his  in- 
fluence, when  he  chose  to  exert  it,  enormous.  He 
had  already  been  a  member  of  the  Eleven  for 
three  years,  and  should  by  rights  this  year  have 
been  captain.  But  alas!  though  Pip  had  been 
duly  washed  by  the  high  tides  of  promiscuous 
September  promotions  out  of  the  all-glorious 
Lower  Shell  into  the  Upper  Shell,  and  from  the 
Upper  Shell  by  the  next  inundation  into  the  Fifth, 
he  had  not  as  yet  qualified  for  a  Monitorship. 

Linklater  was  a  handsome,  breezy,  rather 
boisterous  youth,  quick  of  tongue  and  limber  of 
limb.  He  possessed  his  fan*  share  of  brains,  but 
not  the  corresponding  inclination  to  use  them; 
and  he  was  a  natural  athlete  of  the  most  at- 
tractive type,  —  a  graceful  mover,  a  pretty  bat, 
and  a  beautiful  racquets  player.  But  somehow 


104         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

he  was  not  universally  popular.  Everybody  was 
his  friend,  it  is  true,  but  that  was  chiefly  because 
nobody  cares  to  be  the  avowed  antagonist  of  a 
man  who  possesses  a  sharp  tongue  and  no  scruples 
about  using  it,  especially  when  these  gifts  are 
backed  by  such  undoubted  assets  as  membership 
of  the  Fifteen  and  Eleven.  There  was  some- 
thing not  quite  right  about  Linklater.  Perhaps 
he  was  too  grown-up  in  his  manners.  He  was 
popular,  too,  with  masters,  which  is  not  invari- 
ably a  good  sign  in  a  boy. 

Still,  he  was  not  quite  so  grown-up  at  eighteen 
as  when  he  first  came  to  Grandwich;  and  thereby 
hangs  a  tale. 

At  every  public  school  there  are  certain  things 
—  each  school  has  its  own  list  —  which  are  "not 
done."  Not  done,  that  is,  until  one  has 
achieved  fame,  —  until  one  is  a  "blood,"  or  a 
"dook,"  or  a  "bug"  (or  whatever  they  call  it  at 
your  school,  sir) ;  until  a  boy  has  fought  his  way 
into  that  aristocracy  —  the  most  exclusive  aris- 
tocracy in  the  world  —  in  which  brains,  as  such, 
count  for  nothing,  birth  has  no  part,  and  wealth 
is  simply  disregarded;  where  genuine  ability  oc- 
casionally gains  a  precarious  footing,  and  then 
only  by  disguising  itself  as  something  else;  but 
to  which  muscle,  swiftness  of  foot,  and  general 
ability  to  manipulate  a  ball  with  greater  dex- 
terity than  one's  neighbour  is  received  unques- 


LINKLATER  105 

tioningly,  joyfully,  proudly.  Dear  old  gentlemen, 
who  are  brought  down  to  distribute  the  prizes 
after  lunch  on  Speech  Day,  invariably  point  to 
Simpkins  major,  who  has  obtained  a  prize  for 
Greek  Iambics  and  another  for  Latin  Prose,  as 
the  summit  of  the  scholastic  universe;  and  they 
beseech  Simpkins 's  "fellow-scholars"  not  to  be 
down-hearted  because  they  are  not  like  Simp- 
kins.  "We  do  not  all  get  —  er  —  ten  talents, 
boys,"  observes  the  old  gentleman  soothingly, 
with  a  half -deferential  bob  towards  the  Head, 
as  if  to  apologise  for  quoting  Scripture  before  a 
clerical  authority.  He  next  proceeds  to  hold  out 
strong  hopes  to  his  audience  that  if  they  work 
hard  they  may  possibly  —  who  knows?  —  come 
some  day  to  resemble  Simpkins  major.  At  this 
all  the  parents,  forgetful  of  their  own  youth,  ap- 
plaud, and  the  "fellow-scholars,"  about  fifty 
per  cent  of  whom  do  not  know  Simpkins  by  sight, 
while  the  remainder  seldom  meet  him  in  a  pas- 
sage without  kicking  him,  grin  sheepishly,  and 
take  it  out  of  Simpkins  afterwards.  The  real 
heroes  of  the  school,  if  only  the  dear  old  gentle- 
man would  realise,  or  remember,  the  fact,  are 
those  rather  dull-looking  youths,  with  incipient 
moustaches  and  large  chests,  who  sit  cracking 
nuts  in  the  back  row. 

But  this  is  by  the  way.    Let  us  return  to  the 
things  which  are  "not  done"  by  the  proletariat. 


106         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

The  following  are  a  few  extracts  from  the  un- 
written but  rigid  code  of  Grandwich:  — 

1.  You  must  wear  your  tie  in  a  sailor's  knot  —  not 
in  a  bow. 

2.  A  new  boy  must  not  speak  to  any  one  unless 
spoken  to  first. 

3.  You  must  not  shave  until  you  are  in  the  Fifteen 
or  Eleven;  after  that  you  must  shave  every  Saturday 
night,  whether  you  need  it  or  not. 

There  was  a  merciful  proviso  attached  to  the 
last  remarkable  enactment  —  namely,  that  all 
whose  growth  of  hair  had  outrun  their  social 
status  might  shave  to  an  extent  sufficient  to 
make  them  presentable,  provided  that  the  opera- 
tion did  not  take  place  in  public.  Consequently 
many  undistinguished  but  hairy  persons  were 
compelled  to  shave  in  bed  at  night  after  the 
gas  was  out.  I  have  often  wondered  what  their 
mothers  would  have  thought  if  they  had  known. 
Fortunately  there  is  much  in  our  lives  that  our 
mothers  never  hear  of.  If  they  did,  public 
schools  (among  many  other  things)  would  cease 
to  exist. 

Now,  Linklater,  who,  as  has  been  already 
mentioned,  was  a  precocious  youth,  —  a  typical 
cock-of-the-walk  from  a  preparatory  school,  — 
spent  his  first  few  weeks  at  Grandwich  in  running 
foul  of  all  the  most  cherished  traditions  of  that 
historic  foundation.  He  arrived  in  a  neat  bow- 


LINKLATER  107 

tie,  and  proceeded  to  wear  the  same,  despite  the 
pointed  criticisms  of  a  multitude  of  counsellors, 
for  the  space  of  a  week;  at  the  end  of  which 
period  it  was  taken  from  his  neck  by  a  self- 
appointed  committee  of  the  Lower  Fourth. 
Finding  that  his  eccentricities  were  earning  him 
a  certain  amount  of  unpopularity,  Linklater 
decided,  like  the  born  opportunist  that  he  was, 
to  allay  popular  feeling  by  a  timely  distribution 
of  largesse.  He  accordingly  paid  a  visit  to  the 
school  tuck-shop,  where  he  expended  two  shillings 
and  sixpence  on  assorted  confectionery.  On  his 
way  back  he  encountered  no  less  a  person  than 
Rumsey,  the  captain  of  the  Eleven,  and,  feeling 
that  he  might  as  well  conciliate  all  classes  while 
he  was  about  it,  cried,  "Catch,  there!"  and 
launched  the  largest  sweet  he  could  find  in  the 
bag  in  the  direction  of  Rumsey.  The  feelings  of 
that  potentate  on  receiving  a  marron  glace  in 
the  middle  of  his  waistcoat  from  a  diminutive 
fag  deprived  him  for  the  moment  of  all  power 
to  move  or  speak,  so  that  the  unconscious  Link- 
later,  passing  on  unscathed,  lived  to  tell  the  tale, 
and  subsequently  to  hear  it  told  and  retold  by 
hysterical  raconteurs  to  delighted  audiences  for 
months  afterwards. 

"Heard  the  latest  about  that  new  bloke?" 
inquired  Master  Mumford  of  Pip  one  evening, 
under  cover  of  the  continuous  hum  of  conversa- 


108         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

tion  which  always  characterised  "prep"  in  the 
Hivite  house. 

"What  new  bloke?" 

"Linklater.   Seen  him?" 

Yes,  Pip  had  seen  him  at  nets  that  day,  and 
had  noticed  that  he  was  a  jolly  neat  bat. 

"Notice  his  boots?"  pursued  Mumford. 

"Can't  say  I  did." 

"Well,  they  were  white!" 

Master  Mumford  fairly  overflowed  with  happy 
laughter  at  the  richness  of  the  jest.  The  wearing 
of  white  buckskin  boots  was  one  of  the  privileges 
of  the  First  Eleven,  and  Linklater  had  run  coun- 
ter to  custom  and  habit  again. 

"Oh,"  said  Pip,  "I  suppose  he  did  n't  know." 

This  childishly  lenient  view  of  the  case  did 
not  appeal  to  Mumford,  who,  with  all  the  small- 
minded  man's  respect  for  the  letter  of  the  law, 
was  thirsting  to  punish  the  evildoer. 

"Beastly  side!"  he  ejaculated,  "that's  all. 
We  are  going  to  fill  them  with  soap  and  water 
after  prep,  and  put  a  notice  beside  them  telling 
him  not  to  stick  on  so  much  of  it.  I'm  writing 
it  now.  How  many  es  are  there  in  beastly?" 

"Dunno,"  replied  Pip  shortly. 

"Will  you  come  and  help?" 

"No.  He  looks  rather  a  decent  chap.  He's 
only  been  here  a  week;  he  may  not  know  about 
white  boots." 


LINKLATER  109 

"Ought  to,  then,"  snapped  the  bloodthirsty 
Mumford.  "Other  people  find  things  out  all 
right." 

"  Not  all,"  grunted  Pip.  "  How  about  stamps?  " 

Master  Mumford  turned  his  back  with  some 
deliberation,  and  addressed  himself  severely  to 
the  labours  of  composition.  Once,  during  his 
first  week  at  Grandwich,  he  had  called  at  the 
Head  Master's,  and  having,  after  a  wordy  en- 
counter with  an  unexpected  butler  in  the  hall, 
succeeded  in  pushing  his  way  into  the  study, 
had  endeavoured,  in  faithful  pursuance  of  the 
custom  in  vogue  at  his  private  school,  to  pur- 
chase a  penny  stamp  for  his  Sunday  letter  from 
the  stupefied  autocrat  within. 

Linklater's  white  boots  were  duly  filled  with 
soap  and  water,  but  Pip  was  not  present  at  the 
ceremony.  He  sought  out  the  victim  next  eve- 
ning and  invited  him  to  supper  —  sardines,  and 
condensed  milk  spread  on  biscuits  —  in  his  study 
after  prayers.  An  invitation  from  Pip  was  some- 
thing sought  after  among  the  Juniors  in  "Uncle 
Bill's"  house,  for  Pip,  though  only /fifteen,  was 
regarded  as  a  certainty  for  his  Eleven  colours 
this  year,  after  his  electrifying  performance  on 
last  year's  house-match. 

Linklater  gratefully  accepted  the  invitation, 
and  the  two  became  friends  from  that  day.  They 
possessed  opposite  qualities.  Pip  admired  Link- 


110         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

later's  vivacity  and  bonhomie,  while  Linklater 
was  attracted  by  Pip's  solid  muscle  and  unde- 
monstrative ability  to  "do  things."  But  cricket 
was  their  common  bond.  Linklater  was  almost 
as  promising  a  bat  as  Pip  was  a  bowler,  and  the 
two  rose  to  eminence  side  by  side.  But  despite 
their  early  proficiency,  it  was  fated  that  neither 
should  be  Captain  of  the  Eleven,  —  Pip  for  rea- 
sons already  stated,  and  Linklater  for  another, 
which  came  about  in  this  way. 

Nearly  every  schoolboy  has  a  bete  noire  among 
the  masters,  and  every  master  has  at  least  one 
bete  noire  among  the  boys.  Fortunately  it  very 
seldom  happens  that  the  antipathy  is  mutual. 
If  it  is,  look  out  for  trouble,  especially  when  the 
boy  has  a  dour  temper  and  the  master  is  fault- 
finding and  finicky.  Such  an  one  was  Mr.  Brad- 
shaw,  late  Scholar  of  Balliol  College,  Oxford, 
and  a  born  fool. 

Hostilities  began  early.  On  Linklater's  first 
appearance  in  the  Lower  Sixth,  Mr.  Bradshaw 
remarked  unfavourably  on  the  shape  of  his 
collar,  and  elicited  loud  and  sycophantic  laughter 
—  which  is  always  music  in  the  ears  of  men  of 
his  type  —  by  several  facetious  comments  on  the 
colour  of  his  tie.  Linklater  chafed  and  glowered, 
and  muttered  "Swine!"  under  his  breath,— 
symptoms  of  discomfiture  which  only  roused 
Mr.  Bradshaw  to  further  humorous  efforts. 


LINKLATER  111 

Thereafter  the  two  waged  perpetual  warfare. 
Linklater  took  his  opponent's  measure  with  great 
accuracy,  and  then  advanced  to  battle.  He  dis- 
covered that  Mr.  Bradshaw  was  deaf  in  his  left 
ear.  He  therefore  made  a  point,  whenever  pos- 
sible, of  sitting  on  that  side  and  making  obscene 
noises.  Mr.  Bradshaw  was  extremely  bald,  and 
ashamed  of  the  fact.  Linklater  had  noted  in  his 
study  of  the  Scriptures  that  the  prophet  Elisha 
had  suffered  from  the  same  infirmity:  conse- 
quently Mr.  Bradshaw  found  his  blackboard 
adorned  every  morning  for  a  month  with  the 
single  word  ELISHA  in  staring  capitals.  When 
Mr.  Bradshaw  was  irritable  Linklater  was  se- 
renely cheerful;  when  Mr.  Bradshaw  was  blandly 
sarcastic  Linklater  was  densely  stupid ;  and  after 
ostentatious  efforts  to  understand  his  precept- 
or's innuendoes,  would  shake  his  head  pityingly, 
with  a  patient  sigh  at  such  ill-timed  levity. 

So  the  battle  went  on.  Every  schoolboy  knows 
what  it  must  have  been  like.  Matters  were 
bound  to  come  to  a  crisis.  One  morning,  during 
a  Cicero  lesson,  the  form  came  upon  a  Greek 
expression  amid  the  Latin  text,  and  Mr.  Brad- 
shaw, who  rather  fancied  himself  at  this  sort 
of  thing,  added  a  touch  of  distinction  to  his 
translation  by  rendering  the  word  in  French. 
The  form  received  this  flight  of  scholarship  with- 
out enthusiasm,  merely  wondering  in  their  hearts 


112         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

how  any  man  could  be  such  an  unmitigated  ass 
as  to  be  desirous  of  elucidating  for  them  a  lan- 
guage of  which  they  knew  but  little  by  translating 
it  into  another  of  which  they  knew  still  less. 

"Yes,  elan  is  exactly  the  right  translation," 
quoth  Mr.  Bradshaw,  well  pleased.  "There  is 
always  a  way  out  of  every  difficulty  if  we  only 
look  for  it.  Get  on!'* 

"Please,  sir,  what  does  elan  mean,  exactly?" 
inquired  Linklater,  not  because  he  wished  to 
know,  but  in  the  hope  that  "Braddy"  would 
waste  several  precious  minutes  in  explaining. 

The  master  rose  to  the  bait. 

"Mean?  Bless  my  soul,  what  a  question! 
Not  know?  Here,  tell  him,  somebody  —  Martin, 
Levesley,  Smith,  Forbes,  next,  next,  next!" 

Various  futile  translations  were  offered,  and 
Mr.  Bradshaw  stormed  again. 

"Do  you  fellows  do  anything  in  the  French 
hour  except  eat  bananas?"  he  inquired.  (Defer- 
ential sniggers.)  "What  are  French  lessons  but 
an  excuse  for  idleness?  Really,  I  must  ask  the 
Head- 

They  let  him  run  on,  while  the  golden  moments 
slipped  by.  As  soon  as  he  showed  signs  of  flag- 
ging, Linklater,  seeing  that  it  still  wanted  eight 
minutes  to  the  hour,  repeated  — 

"But  what  does  it  mean,  sir?" 

"Mean,  you  insufferable  dolt!    It  means  —  it 


LINKLATER  113 

means  —  er,  *  energy/  *  verve/  'dash,' — yes, 
that 'sit!  'dash'!" 

Linklater  held  up  a  respectful  hand. 

"I  said  'dash!'  sir,  the  moment  the  question 
passed  me,"  he  remarked  meekly. 

The  form  roared,  and  unanimously  decided 
afterwards  that  "Link  was  one  up  on  Braddy." 
Mr.  Bradshaw,  after  the  manner  of  his  kind, 
reported  Linklater  to  the  Head  for  "gross  im- 
pertinence." The  Head,  who  had  not  reached 
his  present  high  position  for  nothing,  took  a 
lenient  view  of  the  case,  merely  requesting  Link- 
later  to  refrain  in  future  from  humour  during 
school  hours.  But  for  all  that  Linklater  deter- 
mined to  be  "even  with  Braddy"  for  reporting 
him:  and  so  successful  was  he  in  his  enterprise 
that  he  effectually  destroyed  his  own  last  chance 
of  leading  a  Grandwich  Eleven  to  Lord's. 

The  schoolboy  is  an  observant  animal.  Mr. 
Bradshaw,  like  most  men  who  carry  method  and 
precision  to  extremes,  was  a  mass  of  little  affecta- 
tions and  mannerisms,  one  of  the  most  curious 
of  which  was  his  habit  of  passing  his  right  hand 
in  one  comprehensive  sweep  along  his  bald  head 
and  down  over  his  face.  The  boys  knew  this 
trick  by  heart:  Braddy  was  much  addicted  to  it 
at  moments  of  mental  exaltation,  —  say,  when 
standing  over  a  victim  and  thinking  out  the  de- 
tails of  some  exceptionally  galling  punishment. 


114         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

Milford  tertius,  the  licensed  jester  of  the  Lower 
Fourth,  had  indeed  been  caned  by  the  Head  for 
a  lifelike  imitation  of  the  same,  rendered  to  a 
delighted  pewful  of  worshippers  during  a  par- 
ticularly dull  sermon  in  chapel. 

The  schoolboy,  as  we  have  said,  is  an  observ- 
ant animal.  Very  well,  then. 

One  morning  Mr.  Bradshaw,  as  he  entered  his 
classroom,  majestic  in  cap  and  gown,  closing  the 
door  carefully  and  lovingly  behind  him,  with  all 
the  cheerful  deliberation  of  a  Chief  Tormentor 
who  proposes  to  spend  a  merry  morning  in  the 
torture-chamber,  suddenly  beheld  Linklater  stand 
up  in  his  place  and  heave  a  "Liddell  &  Scott'* 
(medium  size)  across  the  room  at  an  unsuspect- 
ing youth  in  spectacles,  who  was  busily  engaged 
in  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  a  copy  of 
Greek  Iambics. 

The  book,  having  reached  its  destination,  re- 
bounded in  obedience  to  one  of  the  primary  laws 
of  mechanics,  and  fell  with  a  heavy  thud  upon 
the  floor.  The  form,  after  the  first  startled  flutter, 
settled  down  with  a  happy  sigh  to  witness  the 
rare  spectacle  of  a  volcano  in  full  eruption. 

Mr.  Bradshaw's  eye  sparkled.  Assuredly  the 
enemy  was  delivered  into  his  hand  this  time. 
Mounting  his  rostrum,  he  stood  gazing,  almost 
affectionately,  upon  the  perpetrator  of  the  out- 
rage, mentally  passing  in  review  all  the  possibil- 


LINKLATER  115 

ities  of  punishment,  from  expulsion  downwards, 
and  busily  caressing  his  countenance  the  while. 

Presently  some  one  in  the  form  tittered.  Then 
another,  and  another,  and  another.  Then  the 
whole  room  broke  into  a  roar.  Mr.  Bradshaw, 
in  high  good-humour,  allowed  them  to  continue 
for  some  time:  he  wanted  to  rub  it  into  Link- 
later.  At  last  he  cleared  his  throat. 

"Your  friends  may  well  smile,  sir,"  he  began 
majestically.  (Cheers  and  laughter.)  "So  serene 
are  you  in  your  conceit  and  self-assurance  that 
you  proceed  to  break  rules,  to  behave  like  a 
board-school  boy,  without  even  taking  the  trouble 
to  observe  if  one  in  Authority"  — he  smacked 
his  lips  —  "be  present  or  no.  What  is  the  result? 
Pride  has  a  fall,  my  young  friend.  You  make  a 
spectacle  of  yourself  — " 

Here  the  speaker  was  interrupted  by  a  per- 
fect tornado  of  merriment.  A  master  can  always 
raise  a  snigger  at  the  expense  of  a  boy,  but  such 
whole-hearted  appreciation  as  this  had  not 
fallen  to  Mr.  Bradshaw's  lot  before. 

"  —  a  ludicrous  exhibition,"  he  continued,  after 
the  noise  had  subsided. 

Cheers  and  laughter,  as  before. 

"If  you  could  only  see  yourself  now,  my  boy, 
only  behold  the  spectacle  you  present  — " 

This  time  his  audience  became  so  hysterical 
that  Braddy  was  conscious  of  an  uneasy  sus- 


116         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

picion  that  something  must  be  wrong.  Suddenly 
his  eye  fell  upon  the  pad  of  foolscap  before  him, 
upon  which  he  had  been  emphasising  his  remarks 
by  vigorous  slappings.  The  paper  was  covered 
with  numerous  impressions  of  his  hand,  neatly 
outlined  in  some  jet-black  substance.  After  a 
hasty  inspection  of  the  hand  itself  the  awful 
truth  began  to  dawn  upon  him,  and  the  now 
frenzied  Lower  Sixth  were  regaled  with  the 
spectacle  of  a  man  attempting  to  scrutinise  his 
own  countenance  by  squinting  along  his  nose. 

It  must  have  been  about  this  time,  according 
to  the  best  authorities,  that  the  Head  came  in. 
That  benevolent  despot,  passing  the  door  on  his 
way  to  his  study,  had  been  attracted  by  the 
sounds  of  mirth  within;  and  under  the  impres- 
sion that  owing  to  some  misunderstanding  Mr. 
Bradshaw  was  not  taking  his  form  that  hour,  he 
entered  the  room  to  maintain  discipline  until  the 
errant  master  could  be  found.  After  his  usual 
punctilious  knock — he  was  a  head  master  of  the 
velvet  glove  type  —  he  opened  the  door,  and 
stood  an  interested  and  astonished  spectator  of 
the  scene  within. 

What  he  saw  was  this  — 

On  the  benches  rolled  thirty  boys,  helpless, 
speechless,  tearful  with  laughter;  and  upon  the 
rostrum,  with  a  parti-coloured  bald  head  and  a 
coal-black  face,  there  mowed  and  gibbered  a 


LINKLATER  117 

creature,  which  rolled  frenzied  eyes  and  gnashed 
unnaturally  whitened  teeth  in  impotent  frenzy 
upon  the  convulsed  throng  before  him. 

Linklater  had  covered  the  door-handle  with 
lampblack,  and  Mr.  Bradshaw's  favourite  man- 
nerism had  done  the  rest. 

ii 

Linklater's  escapade  took  place  at  the  end  of 
the  Christmas  term.  Early  in  the  following 
January  the  Cricket  Committee  held  their  cus- 
tomary meeting  in  the  President's  study,  to  elect 
a  Captain  and  Secretary  of  the  School  Eleven  for 
the  following  summer  term. 

Usually  such  functions  were  of  the  most  formal 
character.  The  senior  "old  colour"  was  elected 
Captain,  and  the  next  man  Secretary;  the  Rev- 
erend William  Mortimer  was  unanimously  re- 
elected  President  (with  an  ungrammatical  vote 
of  thanks  for  past  services  thrown  in);  and  the 
proceedings  terminated. 

But  this  term  matters  were  not  so  simple. 
There  were  five  old  colours  available:  Pip, 
sturdy,  popular,  just  eighteen,  the  best  bowler, 
according  to  that  infallible  oracle  the  ground- 
man,  that  the  school  had  known  in  a  generation; 
Linklater,  a  beautiful  bat  and  a  brilliant  field, 
with  the  added  recommendation  of  a  century 
against  the  County  last  summer;  Ellis,  a  steady 


118         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

bat  and  a  good  change  bowler,  a  singularly  right- 
minded  and  conscientious  boy,  and  therefore 
slightly  unpopular;  Fagg,  a  wicket-keeper  pure 
and  simple;  and  Jarvis,  a  stripling  of  considera- 
bly more  promise  than  performance,  who  had 
scraped  into  the  Eleven  at  the  end  of  the  summer 
term  on  the  strength  of  a  brilliant  but  fluky 
innings  against  the  Authentics. 

Of  these  five,  Pip,  from  every  conceivable 
point  of  view  save  one,  was  the  obvious  and 
natural  man  for  the  post.  But  the  captaincy  of 
the  Eleven  carried  with  it  a  School  Monitorship, 
and  the  Law,  as  represented  by  an  inflexible  head 
master's  decree,  said  that  no  member  of  the 
school  could  wear  a  Monitor's  cap  who  was  not 
a  member  of  the  Sixth.  Now,  Pip  was  only  a 
member  of  the  Fifth,  and  occupied  but  a  sedi- 
mentary position  in  that.  Consequently  the 
Committee  heaved  a  resigned  if  dissatisfied 
sigh  when  Uncle  Bill,  after  taking  the  chair,  an- 
nounced with  real  regret  that  Wilmot — this,  you 
may  possibly  remember,  was  Pip's  name  —  was 
not  eligible  for  the  post  of  Captain. 

"Lucky  thing  Link  got  his  remove  this  term," 
whispered  Fagg  to  Jarvis,  "or  he'd  have  been 
barred  too." 

"Dry  up,"  said  Jarvis,  with  a  warning  nudge; 
"Uncle  Bill  has  got  something  on  his  chest." 

Uncle  Bill  indeed  appeared  to  be  labouring 


LINKLATER  119 

under  some  embarrassment,  for  his  good-hu- 
moured face  was  clouded,  and  he  hesitated  before 
continuing  his  remarks. 

"I  have  another  message  from  the  Head,"  he 
said  at  length.  "I  will  give  it  you  exactly  as  I 
received  it,  without  comment.  It  is  not  a  pleas- 
ant message,  but  you  —  we  have  no  choice  but 
to  obey  orders.  It  is  this.  The  next  in  seniority, 
Linklater,  is  a  member  of  the  Sixth,  and  there- 
fore eligible  for  office;  but  on  account  of  his  — 
of  a  regrettable  incident  in  connection  with  Mr. 
Bradshaw  last  term,  the  Head  feels  unable  to 
make  him  a  Monitor,  and  consequently  he  can- 
not be  Captain  of  the  Eleven." 

Uncle  Bill  had  created  a  sensation  this  time. 
There  was  a  startled  stir  all  round  the  table, 
and  one  or  two  glanced  stealthily  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Linklater.  He  was  deathly  pale.  He 
was  an  ambitious  boy,  —  as  he  was  an  ambitious 
man  in  after  life,  —  and  the  snub  hurt  his  pride 
more  than  most  of  them  suspected.  The  fact 
that  a  far  better  man  than  himself  had  been 
passed  over,  too,  did  not  occur  to  him.  He  was 
not  that  sort. 

"That  is  not  an  agreeable  message  to  have 
to  deliver,"  continued  Uncle  Bill,  who  felt  the 
necessity  of  breaking  the  silence.  "But  what- 
ever our  private  feelings  in  the  matter  may  be," 
—  Uncle  Bill  did  not  like  Mr.  Bradshaw,  and  he 


120         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

was  inwardly  raging  at  the  calamity  which  had 
befallen  his  beloved  Eleven,  —  "we  have  no 
choice  in  the  matter  but  to  obey  orders  and  —  er 
—  pull  together  for  the  good  of  the  school.  We 
have  still  to  elect  a  Captain." 

"I  should  like  to  propose  Ellis,"  said  Pip  at 
once. 

"Ellis  is  proposed.   Will  somebody  second?" 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  Linklater,  but  that 
modern  Achilles  was  too  mortified  to  respond  to 
their  mute  inquiry.  Accordingly,  after  an  awk- 
ward little  pause,  Ellis  was  seconded  by  Mr. 
Hanbury,  who  was  present  in  his  capacity  of 
Treasurer,  and  unanimously  elected.  Pip  was 
appointed  Secretary. 

"I'm  sorry  for  Ellis,"  remarked  Hanbury  to 
his  colleague  as  they  sat  down  for  a  pipe  after 
the  meeting.  "It's  a  poor  business  giving  orders 
to  two  infinitely  better  players  than  yourself, 
especially  when  they  enjoy  the  advantage  of 
being  martyrs  into  the  bargain." 

"If  I  was  n't  a  parson  I  should  call  the  whole 

thing  d d  nonsense,"  remarked  Uncle  Bill 

with  sudden  heat.  He  had  fathered  the  School 
Eleven  for  fourteen  years,  and  he  was  now  very 
sore  that  this  disaster  should  have  fallen  upon  the 
most  promising  side  he  had  ever  coached.  "I 
don't  want  that  young  ass  Linklater  particularly, 
although  they'd  have  followed  him  all  right;  but, 


LINKLATER  121 

as  I  said  to  the  Head,  here  was  a  splendid  oppor- 
tunity for  making  an  exception  to  the  rule  about 
not  appointing  a  Fifth-Form  fellow.  If  there  had 
been  a  decent  alternative  to  Pip  I  should  have 
said  nothing.  Ellis  is  not  popular  with  the  school 
as  it  is,  and  the  fact  of  his  having  supplanted 
two  favourites  will  make  his  position  simply  un- 
endurable. Poor  chap!  For  sheer  moral  worth 
I  don't  suppose  there  are  half  a  dozen  boys  in  the 
school  to  compare  with  him.  But  after  all  he's 
only  a  plodder.  He  has  no  more  influence  than 
—  than  Bradshaw  himself.  The  Eleven  won't 
follow  him:  they  think  he  is  'pi.'  He'll  stick  to 
his  guns,  but  he'll  be  miserable  all  the  tune, 
and  he'll  look  it  too,  and  altogether  he'll  cast  a 
blight  over  the  best  Eleven  I  have  ever  seen  at 
Grandwich." 

Hanbury,  who  knew  that  his  senior  would  feel 
better  if  allowed  to  have  his  say,  smoked  on. 
Presently  he  said  — 

"  I  think  you  are  rather  reckoning  without  our 
friend  Pip.  He  has  n't  an  ounce  of  jealousy  or 
meanness  in  his  composition.  Linklater  will  be- 
have like  the  young  sweep  that  he  is,  but  Pip  will 
back  Ellis  through  thick  and  thin.  Just  you  see 
if  he  don't.  Cheer  up,  old  man,  and  we  trample 
on  the  County  and  St.  Dunstan's  yet!" 

The  school  had  already  regretfully  resigned 


122         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

themselves  to  the  prospect  of  not  having  Pip  as 
Captain  of  the  Eleven,  but  the  news  that  Link- 
later  had  been  barred  too  created  a  storm  that 
was  not  allayed  for  some  weeks.  Linklater, 
much  to  his  own  gratification,  found  himself  a 
hero,  and  without  ado  collected  around  him  a 
band  of  sympathisers  of  the  baser  sort,  who 
assured  him  twenty  times  a  day  that  he  was 
the  only  "sportsman" — overworked  word!  — 
in  the  school,  and  asserted  with  the  unreasoning 
logic  of  their  kind  that  things  ought  to  be  "made 
warm'*  for  Ellis  when  the  summer  term  arrived. 

Pip  said  nothing  about  the  matter  at  all.  It 
was  a  way  he  had.  He  methodically  made  up  his 
fixture  card  for  the  cricket  season,  and  remarked 
to  Ellis  that  if  the  present  extraordinarily  mild 
winter  ended  as  it  had  begun,  they  ought  to  be 
able  with  any  luck  to  get  up  a  little  net  practice 
during  the  fag-end  of  the  spring  term  after  the 
Sports. 

But  all  thoughts  of  cricket,  and  indeed  of 
every  other  suggestion  of  summer,  were  speedily 
brought  to  an  end  by  the  coming  of  the  great  and 
historic  frost  —  subsequently  known  as  the  Hot- 
Water  Frost  —  which  is  talked  about  in  Grand- 
wich  to  this  day.  It  arrived  rather  late,  —  the 
first  week  in  February,  —  and  it  held  continu- 
ously and  unrelentingly  until  the  last  week  in 
March. 


LINKLATER  123 

Morning  after  morning  the  mercury  in  the 
thermometer  outside  Big  School  was  found  to 
have  retreated  unostentatiously  into  its  bulb; 
day  after  day  a  watery  and  apologetic  sun  shone 
forth  upon  a  curiously  resonant  and  rigid  world; 
and  night  after  night  the  black  frost  came  down 
like  a  cast-iron  pall,  repairing  in  a  moment 
the  feeble  and  ineffective  ravages  of  the  winter 
day. 

Not  very  far  away  enthusiastic  persons  were 
endeavouring  to  roast  an  ox  whole  in  the  middle 
of  the  Thames,  and  at  Grandwich  many  an 
equally  unusual  and  delightful  pastime  was  im- 
provised. There  was  much  sliding:  there  was  no 
other  way  of  getting  about;  and  boys  and  masters 
slid  or  glid,  with  more  or  less  agility  and  immun- 
ity from  disaster,  to  and  fro  between  house  and 
school  for  several  weeks.  There  was  a  magnifi- 
cent slide,  slightly  downhill,  all  the  way  from  Big 
School  door  to  the  Gymnasium,  which  offered  an 
exhilarating  rush  through  the  air  of  nearly  sev- 
enty yards  —  an  offer  of  which  Mr.  Bradshaw, 
accidentally  discovering  the  existence  of  the 
slide  when  walking  home  from  dinner  one  dark 
night,  involuntarily  availed  himself. 

There  was  skating  galore,  for  the  Head,  taking 
it  for  granted  that  each  day's  frost  must  be 
the  last,  gave  extra  half -holidays  with  a  liberal- 
ity which  continued,  perforce,  for  seven  weeks. 


124         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

There  was  tobogganing,  too,  down  a  smooth  hill- 
side ending  in  a  plantation  of  young  trees,  against 
which  the  adamantine  heads  of  the  youth  of 
Grandwich  crashed  unceasingly  from  dinner- 
time till  tea.  Every  night,  between  "prep"  and 
prayers,  a  picked  band  from  the  Hivites  house, 
which  stood  adjacent  to  the  slope,  sallied  out, 
often  headed  by  their  house-master  in  person, 
carrying  pots  and  kettles  filled  with  hot  water 
to  pour  upon  the  worn  parts  of  the  toboggan- 
slide;  rags  and  sacking,  too,  wherewith  to  band- 
age the  trunks  of  such  of  the  young  trees  as  were 
beginning  to  suffer  from  unceasing  collision  with 
the  heads  of  youthful  Grandwich.  Under  this 
scientific  treatment  the  toboggan-slide  increased 
rather  than  decreased  in  excellence.  The  long 
slope,  though  slightly  abraded  towards  the  end 
cf  a  day,  always  emerged  glossy  and  speckless 
with  the  morning's  light,  and  fearsome  was  the 
speed  with  which  the  toboggans  rushed  down  to 
arboreal  destruction  at  the  foot.  "Monkey" 
Merton,  the  most  agile  boy  in  the  school,  used  to 
shoot  down  on  skates,  saving  his  life  with  in- 
credible regularity  at  the  end  of  each  descent  by 
hooking  on  to  a  tree  as  a  street  arab  hooks  on  to 
a  lamp-post. 

And  if  there  were  joys  outside  there  were 
others  within.  The  classrooms  were  so  cold  that 
the  benches  were  deserted,  and  boys  and  master 


LINKLATER  125 

sat  round  the  great  open  fireplace  in  a  sociable 
semicircle.  In  the  houses,  too,  there  were  un- 
limited fires;  and  unlimited  fires  meant  unlimited 
other  things.  There  was  a  fireplace  at  the  end  of 
each  of  the  big  dormitories,  and  fires  now  blazed 
in  these  from  seven  o'clock  every  evening.  Theo- 
retically these  dormitory  fires,  not  being  stoked 
after  9  P.M.,  died  a  natural  death  shortly  after 
the  boys  had  retired  to  bed.  In  practice,  how- 
ever, they  glowed  like  the  altars  of  Vesta  all 
night  long,  for  every  boy  made  it  his  business  to 
convey  a  regular  contribution  of  coal  to  his  dor- 
mitory. (Handkerchiefs  were  an  appalling  item 
in  the  laundry-bill  that  term.)  Their  united  ef- 
forts were  thus  sufficient  to  keep  the  fire  going 
all  night,  and  the  elite  of  the  dormitory  used  to 
bivouac  round  it,  in  baths  filled  with  bedclothes. 
This  practice,  of  course,  varied  in  its  extent,  and 
depended  entirely  on  the  house-master's  capac- 
ity for  keeping  his  house  in  order.  Among  the 
Hivites  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  the  nocturnal 
fire-worshippers  were  never  once  disturbed  dur- 
ing the  whole  seven  weeks  of  frost. 

Besides  fuel,  it  was  only  natural  that  light 
refreshments  should  find  their  way  up  to  the 
dormitories,  and  many  and  festive  were  the 
supper-parties  which  were  held,  with  the  senior 
monitor  in  the  chair  —  or  rather  the  bath-chair 
—  supported  by  the  nobility  and  gentry  sitting 


126         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

well  into  the  fire,  while  the  fags  sat  and  munched 
upon  their  hat-boxes  in  the  outer  circle. 

A  change  of  routine  always  tugs  at  the  bonds 
of  discipline;  for  a  boy,  like  his  noble  and  in- 
finitely more  useful  fellow-creature,  the  horse, 
though  you  may  drive  him  daily  with  ease  and 
comfort  so  long  as  you  do  so  under  monotonously 
normal  conditions,  kicks  over  the  traces  at  once 
if  you  change  his  oats  or  take  his  blinkers  off. 
Pip's  house,  the  Hivites,  had  recently  changed 
hands.  "Uncle  Bill"  had  been  promoted  to  the 
largest  house  in  Grandwich,  and  had  left  his 
flock  lamenting,  taking  Hanbury  with  him;  and 
the  house,  under  the  benevolent  sway  of  his 
successor,  Mr.  Chilford,  a  fine  scholar  but  no 
master  of  men,  was  hi  that  state  of  discipline 
usually  described  as  "lax."  Mr.  Chilford,  who 
disliked  boys,  and  saw  as  little  of  them  as  pos- 
sible, left  a  good  deal  of  the  management  of 
his  house  to  monitors  —  a  sound  plan,  provided, 
firstly,  that  it  is  adopted  by  the  house-master 
to  give  his  monitors  experience  and  reliability, 
and  not  to  save  himself  trouble;  and  secondly, 
that  the  monitors  have  the  right  stuff  in  them. 
But  when  the  monitors'  excessive  authority  is 
entirely  due  to  the  house-master's  lack  of  the 
same,  things  are  bound  to  happen. 

Now,  Mr.  Chilford's  monitors  that  term  were 
not  a  very  strong  lot.  They  were  chiefly  of  the 


LINKLATER  127 

clever  and  rather  undersized  type,  with  an  un- 
wholesome respect  for  the  burly  malefactors  of 
the  Fifth  and  Modern  Side.  Their  ranks  had 
recently  been  stiffened  by  the  inclusion  of  Pip,  — 
non-membership  of  the  Sixth  was  no  bar  to  a 
house-monitorship,  —  and  he  and  Linklater  were 
the  only  representatives  of  authority  for  whom 
the  house  could  be  said  to  have  any  respect 
whatsoever.  Pip,  as  junior  monitor,  did  not 
participate  largely  in  the  direction  of  affairs, 
but  he  backed  the  house's  nominal  head,  one 
Maxwell,  with  a  good  deal  of  unostentatious 
energy  whenever  that  incompetent  official  could 
be  cajoled  or  reviled  into  doing  his  duty;. and 
he  kept  a  quiet  but  effective  hand  upon  the 
house-bullies. 

But,  as  has  been  the  case  ever  since  history 
grew  old  enough  to  repeat  itself,  the  chief 
danger  came  not  from  without  but  within. 
Linklater,  second  only  to  Pip  in  popularity  and 
influence,  once  deposed  from  the  captaincy  of 
the  Eleven,  became,  as  Ham  had  predicted,  the 
prey  of  the  parasite  and  the  flatterer.  Such, 
little  though  they  cared  for  their  much  vaunted 
hero-martyr,  were  delighted  with  any  policy 
which  presented  them  with  an  opportunity  of 
pursuing  a  career  of  misdemeanour  under  moni- 
torial authority.  Did  Pip  go  to  quell  a  riot  in 
a  study,  Linklater  was  in  the  midst  of  it;  was  a 


128         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

boy  of  the  baser  sort  detected  in  any  particularly 
unlawful  offence,  he  said  that  "Linklater  had 
given  him  leave." 

Pip  bore  it  all  patiently,  while  he  thought  the 
matter  over.  Linklater  was  his  friend,  the  one 
boy  in  Grandwich  for  whom  he  felt  any  real 
affection.  He  had  an  intense  admiration  for 
Linklater's  superb  brilliancy  in  many  depart- 
ments of  school  life,  and  especially  for  the  readi- 
ness and  vivacity  that  he  himself  lacked.  They 
had  fought  their  way  up  the  school  together,  and 
had  stood  back  to  back  in  more  than  one  tight 
place.  The  fact  that  "Link"  was  at  present 
completely  "off  his  rocker"  was  entirely  due  to 
the  scurvy  manner  in  which  he  had  been  treated 
by  the  Head  —  or  rather  by  Braddy;  for  the 
Head,  Pip  admitted,  was  bound  to  back  weak 
masters  up.  Link  would  inevitably  recover  his 
balance  in  time:  at  present  allowances  must  be 
made  for  him. 

However,  there  is  a  limit  to  all  things.  One 
evening,  after  the  frost  had  lasted  for  nearly  a 
month,  the  monitors  were  lingering  over  the 
tea-table  in  their  own  private  apartment.  A 
half-holiday  for  skating  had  been  granted  that 
day,  and  the  monitors,  pleasantly  replete,  re- 
clined round  the  greatly  lightened  board,  unwill- 
ing to  drag  themselves  away  from  the  debris 
of  a  fine  veal-and-ham  pie  which  somebody's 


LINKLATER  129 

"people"  had  kindly  sent  for  somebody's  birth- 
day. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  opened  with  a  rapid, 
nervous  flourish,  and  the  Reverend  James  Chil- 
ford  appeared  on  the  threshold.  It  was  plain 
that  he  was  suffering  from  an  attack  of  energy. 
For  days  he  would  leave  his  house  to  its  own 
devices,  and  then,  suddenly  goaded  to  a  sense  of 
duty  by  some  slight  misdemeanour,  would  make 
a  lightning  descent  upon  his  pupils,  and,  hav- 
ing thoroughly  punished  the  wrong  boy,  dis- 
appear as  suddenly  as  he  came. 

"Maxwell!"  he  exclaimed,  in  his  high,  quer- 
ulous voice,  to  the  head  boy,  "are  you  quite 
incapable  of  maintaining  discipline  in  the  house? 
Here  I  have  a  letter  from  the  parents  of  Butler, 
complaining  that  their  son  is  being  shamefully 
and  systematically  bullied  by  an  organised  gang. 
I  look  to  you  to  clear  the  matter  up  immediately. 
Come  and  report  to  me  at  nine  o'clock  that  you 
have  detected  the  offenders  and  soundly  pun- 
ished them!" 

The  door  banged,  and  this  paragon  among 
house-masters  was  gone. 

Maxwell  looked  round  feebly. 

"Well,  what  are  we  to  do,  you  chaps?"  he 
inquired,  seeking  to  shift  responsibility  in  his 
turn. 

"What's  the  good  of  doing  anything  for  a 


130          FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

swine  who  does  n't  knock  at  the  door  when  he 
comes  in?"  grunted  Blakely,  the  second  mon- 
itor. 

"I  suppose  we'd  better  have  Butler  in  and 
ask  him,"  said  Maxwell,  forced  to  take  the  ini- 
tiative. 

"Fat  lot  of  good  that  would  do,"  put  in  Pip. 
"He  would  n't  dare  to  tell  you  even  if  he  has 
been  bullied,  which  I  doubt." 

"Better  send  for  Kelly  and  Hicks,"  said 
somebody. 

Maxwell  grew  red,  and  there  was  a  general 
laugh,  for  it  was  known  that  he  was  desperately 
afraid  of  Kelly  and  Hicks,  two  bulky  and  mus- 
cular libertines  who  did  pretty  well  what  they 
liked  in  the  house. 

"It's  not  Kelly  or  Hicks  this  time,"  said  Pip, 
getting  up  and  going  to  the  door,  "I'm  pretty 
sure  of  that." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Had  my  eye  on  them  all  the  time." 

"Oh!"  The  other  monitors  sighed  rather  en- 
viously. Their  chief  object  in  life  was  not  to 
keep  their  eye  on  Kelly  and  Hicks,  but  to  keep 
the  eye  of  those  freebooters  off  themselves. 

"Where  are  you  going?  Don't  clear  out  till 
we  have  settled  something,"  said  Maxwell  help- 
lessly, as  Pip  turned  the  door-handle. 

"All  right!"  said  Pip,  and  was  gone. 


LINKLATER  131 

He  turned  down  a  passage  towards  a  district 
known  as  "the  Colony,"  where  the  boys'  studies 
were  situated.  He  was  not  on  the  track  of  Kelly 
and  Hicks  this  time.  Another  idea  had  occurred 
to  him  —  an  idea  which  set  the  seal  of  certainty 
on  a  series  of  conjectures  which  had  been  forcing 
themselves  upon  his  reluctant  mind  for  some 
weeks.  After  a  brief  sojourn  in  a  study  en  route 
—  usually  known  as  "the  Pub,"  from  the  fact  that 
it  was  always  full  —  into  which  he  was  unan- 
imously haled  to  decide  an  acrid  dispute  over 
certain  questions  connected  with  the  Outside 
Edge,  he  steered  a  course  for  Linklater's  apart- 
ment, which  was  situated  somewhat  remotely 
at  the  end  of  the  passage.  Linklater,  by  the 
way,  had  left  tea  some  time  before  Mr.  Chilford's 
angry  visit. 

He  gave  his  usual  heavy  thump  on  the  door, 
and  walked  in. 

Linklater  was  at  home.  He  sat  in  an  arm- 
chair with  his  back  to  the  door.  In  his  hand  he 
held  a  red-hot  poker,  the  end  of  which  swayed 
gently  backwards  and  forwards  not  more  than 
two  inches  from  the  paralysed  countenance  of 
Master  Butler,  who,  cut  off  from  retreat  by  an 
intervening  table,  and  rigid  with  terror,  was 
staring  helplessly  at  the  glowing  point  with  the 
thoroughness  of  a  fascinated  rabbit. 


132         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

in 

Hearing  the  door  open,  Linklater  looked  round. 
Almost  simultaneously  a  brown  and  muscular 
hand  reached  over  his  right  shoulder  and  whipped 
the  poker  from  his  grasp. 

"You  can  clear  out,  Butler,"  said  Pip. 

Master  Butler  departed  like  a  panic-stricken 
rocket,  and  Pip  and  Linklater  were  left  alone. 

Linklater  eyed  his  friend  furtively,  with  an 
uneasy  grin.  He  knew  that  he  had  to  deal  with 
a  boy  who  was  his  superior  in  every  way,  and 
the  fact  that  the  boy  was  his  best  friend  did  not 
make  the  coming  interview  appear  any  less  un- 
pleasant. 

Pip  sat  down  and  used  the  poker,  which  he 
still  held  in  his  hand,  to  burn  elaborate  holes  in 
his  host's  mantelpiece.  At  length  he  remarked,  — 

"Link,  old  man,  you  are  making  a  bally  ass  of 
yourself." 

"Thanks!"  said  Linklater  laconically. 

"You  are  putting  me  in  an  awful  hole  over  it, 
too." 

"Indeed?  Why?" 

"Well,  this  sort  of  thing  has  got  to  stop,  and 
I  don't  quite  know  how  to  set  about  it." 

"Is  it  absolutely  necessary  for  you  to  try? 
Are  you  head  of  the  house?" 

"No,  I'm  not.    But  Maxwell  is.    He's  a  rab- 


LINKLATER  133 

bit,  and  the  next  four  are  rabbits,  too.  That 
leaves  you  and  me.  By  rights  you  ought  to  be 
the  man  to  keep  the  house  on  its  legs.  But  you 
seem  rather  inclined  to  —  to  leave  it  to  me.  See?  " 

Linklater  glared. 

"It's  a  large  order  for  one  monitor,"  contin- 
ued Pip,  "but  I'm  going  to  do  it,  my  son." 

Pip  finished  a  rather  ornate  pattern  on  the 
mantelpiece,  laid  down  the  poker,  and  continued 
talking,  looking  straight  into  the  fire. 

"What  sort  of  state  do  you  think  the  house 
will  be  in  by  the  end  of  the  term  if  it's  to  be  run 
by  Kelly,  Hicks,  and  —  you  in  your  present 
state?  Rotten!  I've  seen  that  sort  of  thing  be- 
fore. Kendall's  house  went  just  the  same  way 
four  years  ago,  and  —  look  at  it  now!  We  are  n't 
going  that  way  if  I  can  help  it.  If  only  you'll 
pull  yourself  together — " 

"What  the  blazes  do  you  mean?"  broke  out 
Linklater  passionately.  "Do  you  think  I'm  go- 
ing to  stop  taking  it  out  of  an  idle  little  hog  of 
a  fag  just  to  please  you?  " 

"Oh,  Butler?  I  was  n't  talking  about  him," 
said  Pip.  "Listen  a  minute.  Lately  I've  been 
able  to  get  no  good  out  of  you  at  all,  and  you 
don't  seem  to  have  had  much  use  for  me  either. 
It's  not  my  business  to  jaw,  but  I  think  you 
have  rather  allowed  yourself  to  be  talked  over 
by  a  pretty  rotten  lot  —  sorry,  if  they're  friends 


134         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

of  yours!  —  and  the  result,  to  be  quite  frank,  is 
that  you  are  simply  playing  Hades  with  the 
house." 

"What  have  I  done?"  snapped  Linklater. 

"Well,  the  monitors  are  a  weak  enough  gang 
in  all  conscience,  and  it  takes  them  all  their  time 
to  run  things  as  it  is;  but  when  they  find  you 
in  the  middle  of  every  riot  and  row  they're  told 
to  suppress,  I  don't  wonder  that  they  all  go 
about  looking  as  if  they  wanted  to  blub.  Then, 
one  night  last  week  in  the  dormitory  I  woke 
up  —  about  two  in  the  morning,  I  think  — 
when  you  were  still  sitting  with  some  of  your 
pals  round  the  fire.  As  far  as  I  remember  there 
were  you  and  Hicks  and  Kelly  and  little  Red- 
grave-" 

"You  ought  to  set  up  as  a  private  detective," 
said  Linklater,  in  tones  which  were  meant  to  be 
sarcastic,  but  which  only  succeeded  in  sounding 
rather  frightened. 

"I  happen  to  know,"  said  Pip,  "because  you 
were  talking  rather  loud  —  at  the  top  of  your 
voices,  in  fact.  And  to  judge  by  your  conversa- 
tion you  were  brewing  whiskey-punch." 

He  stopped,  and  looked  at  his  friend  inquir- 
ingly. 

"I  wonder  you  did  n't  rush  and  tell  Chilly," 
said  Linklater  witheringly. 

"1  might  have  done,"  agreed  Pip,  "only  it 


LINKLATER  135 

happens  to  be  rather  a  serious  matter  for  a  mon- 
itor to  be  nabbed  in  a  business  like  that." 

"So  you  thought  you'd  give  me  a  pi-jaw 
instead!  That  was  decent  of  you/* 

Pip  took  this  affront  quite  impassively. 

"Don't  talk  rot,"  he  said.  "You  know  per- 
fectly well  that  this  is  n't  a  pi-jaw.  They  're  not 
in  my  line.  We  —  we  are  both  people  of  the  same 
sort  of  character.  The  only  difference  is  that 
at  present  you  happen  to  be  rather  off  your  oats 
owing  to  the  Head's  treatment  of  you,  and  that 
fills  you  with  a  desire  to  raise  Cain  and  drink 
punch  in  the  dormitory  —  eh?" 

This  exceedingly  handsome  way  of  putting 
things  appealed  even  to  Linklater's  selfish  soul. 

"Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  growled. 
"  But  why  can't  you  be  a  sportsman  and  join  in?  " 

Pip  laughed. 

"I  wonder  how  many  good  chaps  have  gone 
to  the  devil  through  fear  of  not  being  thought 
*  sportsmen,' "  he  said.  "No,  Link,  old  man, 
I  won't  join  in.  I  have  my  vices,  but  whiskey- 
punch  in  tooth-mugs  at  2  A.M.  is  n't  one  of  them." 

"Very  well,"  said  Linklater  ungraciously. 
"Sorry  to  have  disturbed  your  slumbers.  I'll 
tell  the  chaps  to  meet  in  the  East  Dormitory  to- 
night. Sure  Maxwell  will  be  pleased  to  see  us!" 

Pip  stood  up  and  sighed  heavily.  He  knew  he 
was  dealing  what  would  probably  be  its  death- 


136         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

blow  to  one  of  the  few  friendships  he  really 
valued,  but  this  was  no  time  for  ignoble  com- 
promises. He  leaned  rather  dejectedly  against 
the  mantelpiece,  this  David,  and  looked  down 
upon  the  unworthy  Jonathan  before  him. 

"Link,  the  whole  business  has  got  to  be 
dropped  —  absolutely.  Surely  you  Ve  got  the 
sense  to  see  that." 

He  spoke  almost  appealingly,  still  clutching 
at  the  fast  receding  hope  that  his  friend  would 
pull  himself  together  yet.  But  he  saw  in  a 
moment  that  the  hope  was  a  vain  one.  Link- 
later's  teeth  shut  with  a  snap,  and  his  eyes 
blazed. 

"Drop  it,  must  I?  Indeed?  And  who  is  go- 
ing to  stop  me?  You,  I  suppose,  you  —  you 
swab!" 

Pip  put  his  last  regrets  from  him,  and  an- 
swered briskly  — 

"Correct!" 

"And  why?" 

"  Because  —  well,  because  I  happen  to  be  rather 
fond  of  this  old  house,  —  we  Ve  both  had  a  good 
time  in  it,  Link,  —  and  I  don't  want  to  see  it 
turned  into  a  fully-licensed  pub.  Also,  because 
I  don't  like  to  see  my  friends  make  asses  of  them- 
selves. Also,  because  —  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
have  mentioned  this  first  —  because  it  happens 
to  be  what  I  was  made  a  monitor  for." 


LINKLATER  137 

"O  lor!"  said  Linklater,  turning  up  his  eyes; 
"talking  about  his  'duty'  now.  We  shall  have 
a  prayer  next ! " 

"Yes,  horrid  word,  'duty/  is  n't  it?"  said  Pip. 
"I  know  no  sportsman  would  ever  use  it.  But 
I'm  going  to  do  mine  for  all  that,  my  lad." 

"May  I  venture  to  inquire  how?" 

"Well,  there  you  rather  have  me.  But  I  shall 
begin  by  going  round  the  house  with  a  stick  and 
making  myself  deuced  unpleasant." 

"How  the  house  will  love  you!" 

"They'll  thank  me  in  the  end,"  said  Pip 
stoutly. 

"What  else  will  you  do?" 

"Well,  if  I  can't  stiffen  up  the  other  monitors 
enough  to  get  things  right  again,  I  shall  have 
to  make  Maxwell  report  some  of  the  worst  people 
to  Chilly." 

"Maxwell?  He'd  never  dare." 

"Then  I '11  do  it  myself." 

"Go  and  blab!  That's  right.  Great  Scott! 
you  must  have  got  religious  mania,  or  some- 
thing." 

"But  of  course,"  said  Pip  reassuringly,  "I 
should  only  do  that  as  a  last  resource.  I  should 
try  the  other  way  first.  To  begin  with  —  but, 
by  the  bye,  where  do  you  get  your  whiskey?" 

"What  the  devil  has  that  got  to  do  with  you?" 
roared  Linklater. 


138        FIRST,  THE   INFANT  ... 

"Lots.   I'm  going  to  cut  off  the  supply." 

"Find  out  where  it  comes  from  first." 

"I'm  going  to.  Do  you  get  it  from  the  but- 
ler?" 

"Find  out." 

"Right-o!  But  if  I  accuse  him  of  supplying 
smuggled  whiskey  to  the  house,  and  he  happens 
to  be  innocent,  it's  possible  he  may  consider  it 
his  duty  to  mention  the  matter  to  Chilly.  Won't 
you  be  rather  landed  if  he  does?" 

He  gazed  inquiringly  at  Linklater,  and  the 
latter,  thus  suddenly  cornered,  lowered  his  eyes. 

"It  is  n't  the  butler,"  he  growled. 

"Who  is  it?" 

A  pause.  Then  —  "Atkins."  (Atkins  was  the 
gate  porter.) 

"Thanks,"  said  Pip.  "I'll  tell  Atkins  that  if 
he  supplies  another  bottle  I'll  report  him  to  the 
Head.  But  all  that  is  by  the  way.  What  I  want 
to  say  is  this,  Link:  will  you  promise  me  on  your 
honor  to  drop  all  this  monkey-business  and  back 
me  up  in  putting  the  house  in  decent  order 
again?  This  long  frost  is  playing  Old  Harry 
with  the  place;  but  if  you  —  if  we  play  the  man 
this  day,  the  bottom  will  drop  out  of  the  oppo- 
sition completely.  Will  you  promise,  Link?  " 

Pip  was  extremely  red  in  the  face.  One  cannot 
strain  the  foundations  of  an  ancient  friendship 
without  feeling  it. 


LINKLATER  139 

Linklater  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and 
then  gazed  into  the  fire. 

''Supposing  I  don't,"  he  said  at  length. 

"But  you  will?" 

"Yes;  but  supposing  I  don't?" 

"Then,"  said  Pip  deliberately,  "I  should  have 
to  give  you  a  thundering  good  licking,  Link." 

Linklater  was  no  coward,  but  Pip's  slow  words 
dropped  into  his  heart  like  ice.  He  felt  miser- 
ably petty  and  mean,  and  he  knew  that  he  looked 
it.  He  raised  the  ghost  of  a  laugh. 

"Wha — what  the  blazes  do  you  mean,  old 
man?"  he  queried  uneasily.  "Rum  way  to 
treat  your  friends,  isn't  it?"  It  was  the  first 
time  that  he  had  admitted  their  friendship  dur- 
ing that  interview. 

"Yes,  filthy,"  said  Pip.  "But  there's  only 
one  alternative  —  to  report  you  to  Chilly,  and 
I  don't  want  to  do  that.  The  less  masters  have 
to  do  with  this  job  the  better." 

Linklater  plucked  up  courage.  Pip  seemed  so 
good-tempered  and  serene. 

"Well,  old  chap,"  he  said  easily,  "I  absolutely 
refuse  to  fight  you.  The  idea 's  absurd.  So  there ! " 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  has  neatly  turned  an  awkward  corner. 

Pip  looked  at  him  grimly. 

"I  did  n't  say  fight,"  he  explained.  "I  said  I 
should  have  to  give  you  a  licking,  —  an  ordi- 


140         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

nary,  low-down  caning,  that  is,  —  a  monitor's 
lamming,  —  in  here.  Of  course,  if  you  resist,  I 
shall  have  to  knock  you  down  till  you  give  in; 
and  then  I  —  I  shall  bend  you  over  in  the  usual 
way,  that's  all." 

He  did  not  speak  boastfully,  but  quietly  and 
evenly,  with  his  serious  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
boy  in  front  of  him.  He  had  figured  out  the 
situation,  and  settled  on  his  course  of  action. 
To  him  Linklater  had  ceased  to  be  a  friend,  and 
was  now  an  abstract  problem,  to  be  solved  at 
all  costs.  He  was  prepared  to  knock  Linklater 
senseless,  if  necessary,  until  he  purged  him  of 
the  evil  spirit  that  possessed  him.  And  Link- 
later  knew  it. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Linklater's  weaker 
nature  suddenly  crumpled  up  like  a  wet  rag 
before  Pip's  overbearing  steadiness. 

"All  right ! "  he  replied  petulantly.  "Anything 
you  like.  You've  beaten  me!  I'll  give  in,  curse 
you!  And  for  Heaven's  sake  stop  staring  at  me 
like  that!" 

His  overstrained  nerves  could  endure  no  more, 
and  he  rushed  from  the  study,  leaving  his  guest 
master  of  the  situation. 

Pip  sighed  heavily,  and  diverted  his  devas- 
tating gaze  into  the  fire. 

He  had  lost  a  friend,  but  he  had  saved  the 
house. 


LINKLATER  141 

IV 

Thereafter  there  was  no  more  trouble  with 
the  unruly  element.  Bereft  of  pseudo-monitorial 
support,  Messrs.  Hicks  and  Kelly  found  the 
ground  slipping  from  under  them.  They  were 
routed  on  several  occasions,  for  Pip  exercised 
a  good  deal  of  quite  unconstitutional  authority, 
and  wielded  the  rod  in  a  manner  which  they 
regarded  as  excessively  unfair.  The  half-hearted 
monitors  took  courage;  presently  the  house  be- 
gan to  understand  the  meaning  of  the  word 
obedience,  and  its  self-appointed  leaders  came 
to  the  reluctant  conclusion  that  the  game  was 
not  worth  the  candle.  To  crown  all,  the  frost 
broke,  and  the  long-deferred  joys  of  football 
soon  dissipated  the  last  relics  of  discontent  and 
insubordination  for  everybody. 

For  everybody  but  Linklater,  that  is.  His 
pride  had  had  a  fall,  and  he  was  not  the  boy  to 
recover  easily  from  such  a  disaster.  His  inter- 
view with  Pip  had  been  absolutely  private  — 
apart  from  the  momentary  intrusion  of  Pip 
upon  the  torture  of  Master  Butler,  a  scene  which 
had  lost  none  of  its  dramatic  force  from  that 
infant  martyr's  description  of  it;  but  the  house, 
though  they  knew  nothing  for  certain,  observed 
two  things  —  (a)  that  Linklater  was  no  longer 
the  sworn  foe  of  law  and  order,  and  (6)  that  he 
was  no  longer  the  friend  of  Pip;  and  putting  two 


142         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

and  two  together  and  adding  them  up  in  time- 
honoured  fashion  to  a  total  of  five,  they  came  to 
the  unanimous  and  joyous  conclusion  that  Pip 
had  "lammed  Link  till  he  promised  to  dry  up." 

Pip,  if  he  felt  any  satisfaction  over  the  result 
of  his  labours,  displayed  none.  He  invited  Link- 
later  to  take  supper  in  his  study  the  following 
Sunday  evening,  and  though  little  surprised  at 
the  answer  he  received,  all  his  stolid  philosophy 
could  not  prevent  him  from  feeling  distinctly 
unhappy. 

One  night  he  lay  awake,  thinking.  The  school 
clock  had  just  chimed  midnight,  and  the  dormi- 
tory was  given  up  to  a  well-modulated  concerto 
for  seventeen  nasal  organs.  Pip  found  him- 
self wondering  if  Linklater  was  asleep.  Happy 
thought!  he  would  go  and  see. 

The  night  was  cold,  and  the  moon  shone 
brightly  through  the  uncurtained  oriel  windows 
upon  Pip's  bare  feet  as  they  paddled  along  the 
boarded  floor.  Pip's  cubicle  was  next  the  dormi- 
tory door,  while  Linklater's  was  at  the  extreme 
end,  the  two  monitors  thus  dividing  the  dormi- 
tory between  them. 

Pip  had  something  to  say  to  Linklater. 

Presently  he  arrived  at  his  friend's  cubicle. 
It  possessed  no  door,  and  the  moonlight  illu- 
minated the  interior  quite  plainly,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  the  lower  half  of  the  window  was 


LINKLATER  143 

obscured  by  a  human  form  —  the  form,  in  fact, 
of  the  owner  of  the  cubicle.  He  was  leaning  far 
out,  and  was  apparently  endeavouring  to  com- 
municate with  some  one  in  the  garden  below. 

No;  he  was  hauling  something  up!  Pip  could 
see  the  regular  motion  of  his  elbow  as  the  line 
came  in  hand  over  hand.  What  had  this  mid- 
night fisherman  hooked?  And  who  had  put  the 
fish  on  the  hook  for  him?  And  what  on  earth  — ? 

Suddenly  the  motion  of  Linklater's  elbow 
ceased.  Still  intent  on  his  employment,  he 
stepped  back  a  pace  and  scientifically  "landed" 
his  quarry.  Simultaneously  Pip  realised  that 
this  performance  was  not  intended  for  the  public 
eye.  He  must  either  take  official  notice  of  it  or 
go  back  to  bed. 

He  went  back  to  bed. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  settled 
down  under  the  clothes  again,  "if  they  ever 
wrap  up  anything  but  bottles  in  those  straw 
things?  He  can't  have  taken  to  drink!  Atkins, 
of  course,  dare  n't  supply  him  with  any  more,  so 
he  must  be  —  But  surely  he  does  n't  find  it  as 
necessary  as  all  that!  Perhaps  it's  only  cussed- 
ness.  Let 's  hope  so !  Poor  old  Link !  In  the  morn- 
ing I'll— " 

Here  Pip  joined  the  well-modulated  concerto. 

Pip's  sleepy  surmises  had  been  more  or  less 


144         FIRST,   THE   INFANT  .  .  . 

correct.  It  was  a  bottle,  but  Linklater  had  not 
taken  to  drink.  It  was,  'as  Pip  opined,  chiefly 
"cussedness."  Pip,  argued  Linklater,  had  sud- 
denly turned  religious,  and  by  a  most  unwar- 
rantable parade  of  muscular  Christianity  had 
compelled  him,  Linklater,  the  idol  of  the  school, 
to  eat  humble  pie  and  then  efface  himself.  But 
not  even  Pip  should  stop  his  fun.  He  would  show 
his  independence ! 

Hence  the  bottle  of  highly  inferior  whiskey, 
obtained  at  an  appalling  cost  from  an  individual 
known  to  the  boys  as  the  One-Eyed  Tout,  who 
resided  in  the  adjacent  village,  and  whose  visits 
to  the  school  (events  which  the  vigilance  of  the 
authorities  rendered  infrequent  and  furtive)  were 
invariably  for  some  nefarious  purpose.  It  is 
true  that  Linklater  did  not  like  whiskey,  though 
plenty  of  hot  water  and  sugar  enabled  him  to 
swallow  it  with  a  fair  show  of  enjoyment.  But 
it  was  forbidden  fruit.  Few  of  us,  from  Eve 
downwards,  have  ever  been  able  to  withstand 
that  temptation,  and,  as  his  dormitory  parties 
had  been  perforce  discontinued,  Linklater  con- 
ceived the  happy  notion  of  giving  a  "small  and 
early"  in  his  own  study.  And  on  these  hospit- 
able thoughts  intent  he  invited  Kelly  and  Hicks 
to  "look  in"  directly  after  prayers  if  they  wanted 
"a  little  something,  hot." 

Kelly  and  Hicks  both  nodded  knowingly,  and 


LINKLATER  145 

accepted  the  invitation  with  much  pleasure. 
Their  sentiments  were  perfectly  genuine.  In 
the  first  place,  it  is  gratifying  for  ordinary  house- 
bullies  to  be  noticed  by  a  celebrity  in  the  Eleven; 
and  in  the  second,  it  is  comforting  to  feel  that  in 
the  event  of  a  collision  with  the  powers  that  be, 
the  entire  responsibility  will  fall  upon  the  exalted 
shoulders  of  your  host. 

Bedtime  at  Grandwich  lasted  from  nine-thirty 
till  ten-fifteen.  The  school  retired  to  roost  in 
detachments  —  "squeakers"  at  half -past  nine, 
Middle  School  at  ten,  and  the  Sixth  at  a  quar- 
ter-past. At  that  hour  the  senior  boy  was  sup- 
posed to  turn  off  the  gas,  and  slumber  reigned 
officially  till  six-forty-five  the  following  morn- 
ing. 

The  dormitory  cubicles,  as  has  already  been 
mentioned,  possessed  no  doors,  and  the  partitions 
were  only  seven  feet  high.  Each  cubicle  was 
entered  by  an  opening  some  three  feet  wide, 
across  the  top  of  which  ran  a  stout  wooden  bar. 
The  bar,  originally  devised  to  strengthen  the 
framework  of  the  doorway,  had  been  used  for 
generations  by  Grandwich  boys  for  the  perform- 
ance of  gymnastic  exercises.  Indeed,  it  was  in- 
cumbent upon  every  newcomer,  after  he  had  been 
a  member  of  the  school  a  fortnight,  to  do  six 
"press-ups"  on  his  cubicle-bar,  under  penalty 
of  continuous  and  painful  assistance  (with  a 


146        FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

slipper)  from  the  rest  of  the  dormitory  until  pro- 
ficiency was  attained. 

On  the  evening  of  Linklater's  party,  Pip  ar- 
rived in  the  dormitory,  as  was  his  custom,  shortly 
before  ten,  and  after  attiring  himself  in  his  pyja- 
mas proceeded  to  his  usual  exercises.  Five  min- 
utes' club-swinging  warmed  his  blood  nicely;  and 
he  had  just  completed  his  preliminary  "toe-and- 
up,"  and  was  sitting  balanced  on  the  bar,  when 
the  dormitory  door,  which  adjoined  the  entrance 
to  his  cubicle,  suddenly  swung  open,  and  Link- 
later  appeared  upon  the  threshold.  He  was 
singing,  blindly,  lustily,  raucously;  and  Pip 
realised  at  a  glance  that  the  "straw  thing"  had 
contained  a  bottle,  and  that  his  friend  was  now 
a  fully-qualified  candidate  for  "the  sack." 

Linklater  arrived  opposite  Pip's  cubicle,  where 
he  drew  up  with  a  slight  lurch  and  a  suggestion 
of  a  hiccup.  Small  boys,  who,  attracted  by  his 
corybantic  entrance,  had  come  to  the  doors  of 
their  cubicles  to  see  what  the  matter  was,  re- 
garded him  furtively  with  looks  of  mingled  fear 
and  amusement. 

Pip  slipped  off  his  bar. 

"Have  you  been  making  that  filthy  row  all 
the  way  up  from  your  study?"  he  inquired. 

Linklater  turned  a  slightly  glazed  eye  upon 
him,  and  nodded. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Pip,  "you  '11  probably  have 


LINKLATER  147 

Chilly  up  any  moment.  If  he  catches  you  like 
this  you'll  get  sacked  —  do  you  understand?  — • 
sacked!  Go  to  bed,  quick  —  you  swine!" 

He  took  his  bemused  friend  by  the  shoulder 
and  turned  him  in  the  right  direction.  But  two 
glasses  of  toddy  held  firm  sway  in  Linklater's 
unaccustomed  interior,  and  for  the  moment 
Dutch  courage  was  the  order  of  the  day. 

"Think  I  care?"  he  roared.  "Where  is  old 
Chilly?  Let  me  get  at  him!  Chilly  be— " 

"There  he  is!  —  downstairs  —  now!"  hissed 
Pip  in  his  ear.  "  Get  to  your  cubicle  and  into  bed, 
as  quick  as  you  can.  I  '11  try  to  keep  him  down  at 
my  end;  but  if  he  comes  along  to  you,  pretend 
to  be  asleep.  It's  your  only  chance." 

All  the  time  he  was  hustling  the  highly  indig- 
nant Linklater  towards  his  cubicle.  Downstairs 
Mr.  Chilford's  high  voice  could  be  heard  queru- 
lously announcing  its  owner's  determination  to 
unearth  "the  perpetrator  of  this  outrage." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  Pip's  determined 
strategy  would  succeed.  But  just  at  the  en- 
trance to  his  cubicle  Linklater  broke  away  with  a 
sudden  twist,  and  in  a  moment  was  flying  down 
the  dormitory  again  with  the  avowed  intention 
of  interviewing  his  house-master. 

"Where  is  the  blighter?"  he  shrieked.  "Lead 
me  to  him,  and  I'll  —  Pip,  you  cad,  leave  me 
alone!  Help!  rescue!  cad  —  hrrrumph!" 


148        FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

The  last  ejaculation  was  caused  by  sudden 
contact  with  his  own  pillow,  for  Pip,  losing  all 
patience,  fairly  picked  him  up  in  his  arms,  and, 
carrying  him  kicking  and  struggling  the  whole 
length  of  the  dormitory,  through  a  double  rank 
of  trembling  and  ecstatic  fags,  heaved  him 
through  the  doorway  of  his  cubicle  on  to  his 
bed. 

"Get  him  into  bed  and  sit  on  his  head,"  he 
whispered  rapidly  to  the  two  biggest  boys  pres- 
ent. "Chilly  is  coming  upstairs  now.  Never 
mind  his  clothes.  Quick!" 

His  lieutenants,  though  they  risked  a  heavy 
punishment  for  being  found  in  another  boy's 
cubicle,  turned  to  their  task  with  the  utmost 
cheerfulness  and  vigour,  while  Pip  raced  down 
the  dormitory  to  repel  the  invader.  When  that 
well-meaning  but  incompetent  pedagogue  en- 
tered the  door  Pip  was  preening  himself  upon 
his  cubicle-bar. 

Mr.  Chilford  began  at  once  — 

"Wilmot,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  dis- 
graceful disturbance?  I  insist  upon  having  the 
names  of  those  responsible.  Do  you  hear?  I 
insist,  I  say,  —  I  insist!" 

"Disturbance,  sir?"  said  Pip  blankly. 

"Yes  —  disturbance,  brawl,  riot,  pandemo- 
nium, boy!  Who  is  responsible?" 

"What  sort  of  disturbance  was  it,  sir?"  in- 


LINKLATER  149 

quired  Pip  respectfully,  his  cast-iron  features 
unmoved. 

"What  sort?  Are  you  deaf?  Do  you  mean 
to  say  you  heard  nothing?'* 

Pip  reflected. 

"I  think  I  did  hear  somebody  singing,  sir," 
he  admitted  at  length. 

"Hear?"  Mr.  Chilford  almost  screamed.  "I 
should  think  you  did!  And,  what  is  more,  I 
believe  he  was  coning  up  to  this  dormitory.  Who 
was  it?" 

"I  think  it  must  be  a  mistake,  sir.  There  is 
nobody  singing  here;  you  can  hear  that  for 
yourself,  sir." 

Mr.  Chilford  was  accustomed  to  cavalier  treat- 
ment from  boys,  but  Pip's  bland  rudeness  was 
rather  more  than  even  he  was  prepared  to  stand. 
For  a  moment  there  wras  dead  silence  in  the 
dormitory,  broken  only  by  spasmodic  quakings 
from  one  or  two  beds.  Then,  just  as  Mr.  Chil- 
ford braced  himself  for  a  thorough  scarifying  of 
Pip,  —  a  congenial  task  which  would  probably 
have  occupied  his  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
else  and  so  tided  over  a  disaster,  —  there  came 
from  the  far  end  of  the  dormitory  a  loud,  reso- 
nant, and  alcoholic  chuckle,  and  out  of  the  gloomy 
recesses  of  Linklater's  cubicle  there  arose  once 
more  the  refrain  of  that  very  song  which  had 
brought  Mr.  Chilford  flying  from  his  study. 


150         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

Pip  ground  his  teeth.  But  he  broke  in 
quickly,  — 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  if  I  do  a  straight- 
arm  balance  right,  sir?"  (Mr.  Chilford  had  been 
something  of  a  gymnast  in  his  youth,  and  many 
a  hard-pressed  sinner  had  escaped  punishment  at 
the  eleventh  hour  by  asking  his  advice  on  the 
subject.)  "  My  left  arm  seems  to  go  wrong  some- 
how. Do  you  think  — " 

But  Mr.  Chilford  had  heard  the  noise. 

"There  — I  knew  it,  I  knew  it!"  he  cried. 
"It  is  in  this  dormitory.  Who  is  it,  Wilmot?  I 
insist  upon  you  giving  me  his  name." 

"I  expect  it's  Linklater,  sir,"  said  Pip,  after 
consideration.  The  dormitory  shivered.  Surely 
Pip  was  not  going  to  throw  up  the  sponge  now! 
"He  often  sings  in  his  sleep,  sir,"  he  added. 

The  dormitory  breathed  again,  and  Mr.  Chil- 
ford, completely  baffled  by  Pip's  heroic  coolness, 
paused  irresolutely.  Meanwhile,  in  the  murky 
recesses  of  Linklater's  abiding-place,  the  two 
sturdy  Fifth-Form  boys  did  not  cease  to  sit  pre- 
cariously but  resolutely  on  Linklater's  head. 

"Where  I  go  wrong,  sir,"  continued  Pip,  fol- 
lowing up  his  advantage,  "is  here."  He  poised 
himself  on  the  bar  and  began  to  sink  his  head 
slowly  down,  while  his  rigid  body  and  legs, 
hinged  on  his  elbows,  swung  slowly  up.  "My 
left  arm  begins  to  go  as  soon  as  the  weight  — " 


LINKLATER  151 

Mr.  Chilford  began  to  take  an  interest,  in  spite 
of  himself.  But  then  —  ten  thousand  horrors!  — 
there  was  a  sound  as  of  heavy  bodies  in  conflict, 
and  Linklater's  raucous  voice  was  once  more 
uplifted  — 

"What?  Here,  is  he?  Just  the  man  I  want  to 
see !  Lead  me  to  him,  lead  me  to  him,  I  tell  you ! 
Lead- 

"  Should  I  have  my  thumbs  round  the  bar,  sir, 
or  alongside  my  fingers?"  gasped  Pip,  upside 
down  and  desperate. 

But  it  was  too  late.  Mr.  Chilford,  roused  at 
last,  turned  on  his  heel  and  rushed  up  the  dor- 
mitory in  the  direction  of  Linklater's  cubicle. 

He  had  only  taken  a  few  steps  when  his  course 
was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  a  crash  and  a  dull 
thud  behind  him.  He  whirled  round  again  to  see 
what  had  happened.  Pip  was  no  longer  balanced 
on  the  bar,  but  lay  on  the  floor  beneath,  a  mo- 
tionless heap  of  arms  and  legs  and  striped 
pyjamas. 

Providence  had  stepped  in  at  the  eleventh 
hour,  and  the  unjust  had  been  saved,  not  for  the 
first  time,  at  the  expense  of  the  just. 

Seven  feet  is  not  a  very  long  way  to  fall,  but 
when  you  do  so  head  first,  and  alight  on  the 
point  of  your  left  shoulder  on  a  boarded  floor, 
something  is  bound  to  go.  Pip's  collar-bone 


152         FIRST,  THE   INFANT  .  .   . 

went,  and  his  thick  head  also  suffered  consid- 
erable concussion.  However,  his  injuries,  as 
described  to  Master  Linklater  by  the  entire  dor- 
mitory next  morning,  were  sufficient  to  give  that 
late  disciple  of  Bacchus  a  very  bad  fright  indeed. 
His  recollection  of  the  disaster  itself  was  vague 
in  the  extreme,  but  the  strictures  on  his  own 
part  in  the  affair,  received  from  numerous  angry 
people  during  the  next  few  days,  had  an  effect 
upon  him  which  was  to  last  the  rest  of  his  life. 
Consequently  it  was  a  very  remorseful  and  re- 
pentant Linklater  who  presented  himself  at  the 
Sanatorium  two  days  later,  on  a  visit  to  the 
invalid. 

"Five  minutes  and  no  more!"  said  the  decisive 
matron,  as  she  showed  him  into  the  sick-room. 
"His  head  is  still  very  painful.'* 

Linklater,  to  his  eternal  credit,  devoted  the 
greater  part  of  the  five  minutes  to  an  abject 
apology  for  his  baseness  and  ingratitude.  Pride 
—  most  invincible  of  all  devils  —  was  swept 
aside  at  last,  and  his  broken  words  embarrassed 
Pip  considerably. 

"All  right,  old  man,  you  can  dry  up  now," 
he  remarked  nervously,  as  Linklater  paused  for 
breath.  "Let's  drop  the  subject  once  and  for 
all.  It 'sail  over." 

"Is  it?  Pip,  they  say  you  won't  be  able  to 
bowl  next  term," 


LINKLATER  153 

This  possibility  had  not  occurred  to  Pip,  but 
if  he  felt  any  disappointment  he  displayed 
none. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it's  a  pity.  Never  mind!" 

"And  it's  all  my  fault,  my  fault!"  Linklater 
held  his  head  in  his  hands  and  groaned  aloud. 

"Your  fault?  Piffle,  my  dear  man!  What  on 
earth  had  you  to  do  with  my  falling  off  a  bar? 
You  were  at  the  other  end  of  the  dormitory. 
The  whole  thing  was  an  accident:  it  happened 
at  a  rather  lucky  time  for  you,  that 's  all.  You  'd 
better  cut  now." 

Linklater  rose  to  go,  mightily  comforted. 

"I  heard  how  you  held  out  against  Chilly, 
trying  to  keep  him  from  coming  — " 

"Oh,  hook  it!"  remarked  the  patient  uneas- 

iiy. 

But  Linklater  lingered  a  moment.  He  wanted 
to  say  something. 

"  I  '11  —  we  '11  look  after  the  house  till  you  come 
back,  Pip,"  he  said  awkwardly. 

"Right.  Back  Maxwell  up.  He's  a  puker, 
Link." 

"Well,  so  long!" 

"So  long!" 

Linklater  reached  the  door,  and  turned. 

"It's  a  rum  world,  Pip,"  he  said.  "If  you 
had  n't  tumbled  off  that  bar  at  that  precise 
moment  I  should  have  been  sacked." 


154         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

"You  would,"  assented  Pip. 

Then,  as  the  door  closed  upon  his  friend,  he 
turned  to  the  wall,  and  murmured  with  a  con- 
tented chuckle, — 

"That's  why  I  did  it,  my  son!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

PETTICOAT   INFLUENCE 
"PlP!" 

"Well?" 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"All  right,"  said  Pip  in  a  surprised  tone.  His 
sister  was  not  in  the  habit  of  craving  admission 
to  his  den  in  this  formal  manner. 

The  reason  revealed  itself  with  the  opening  of 
the  door.  Pipette  entered  the  room  with  another 
girl,  at  whose  appearance  Pip,  always  deferential 
to  the  point  of  obsequiousness  in  female  society, 
rose  up  hastily  and  removed  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  other- 
wise unprepared  for  company.  His  private  apart- 
ment was  in  a  state  of  more  than  usual  confusion, 
for  a  difference  of  opinion  had  arisen  between 
John  —  the  fox-terrier  —  and  a  cricket-boot,  and 
the  one-sided  conflict  that  ensued,  together  with 
the  subsequent  chastisement  of  John,  had  de- 
ranged even  the  primitive  scheme  of  upholstery 
that  prevailed  in  "the  pig-sty,"  as  Pip's  apart- 
ment was  commonly  called. 

"This  is  Elsie  Innes,"  said  Pipette.  "My 
brother." 

Pip  saw  before  him  a  girl  of  about  sixteen. 


156         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

She  had  extremely  fair  hair,  a  clear  skin,  not 
unbecomingly  freckled,  and  eyes  which  had  a 
habit  of  changing  from  blue  to  grey  in  different 
lights.  Girls  of  sixteen  are  not  always  graceful, 
—  like  their  male  prototypes  they  frequently  run 
to  knees  and  elbows,  —  but  this  girl  appeared  to 
be  free  from  such  defects.  She  possessed  a  slim, 
lithe,  young  figure,  and  carried  herself  with  an 
elasticity  and  freedom  that  spoke  of  open  air 
and  early  bedtimes.  She  was  in  the  last  stages 
of  what  slangy  young  men  call  "flapperdom," 
and  her  hair  was  gathered  on  the  nape  of  her 
neck  with  a  big  black  bow.  Pip,  of  course,  did 
not  take  in  all  these  things  at  once,  but  he  had 
time  to  note  especially  the  neatness  of  Elsie 
Innes's  feet  and  the  whiteness  of  her  teeth. 
From  which  it  will  be  observed  that,  though  his 
experience  in  these  matters  was  limited  and  his 
judgment  unformed,  Pip's  instincts  were  sound. 

"  Please  sit  down,"  he  said,  sweeping  John 
and  "The  Field"  from  out  of  the  armchair. 
"Pipette,  what  on  earth  did  you  bring  Miss  — 
Miss,  er—  " 

"Innes." 

" —  Miss  Innes  up  to  this  untidy  hole  for?" 

"The  drawing-room  has  got  two  plumbers  in 
it,  and  they  are  laying  lunch  in  the  dining-room, 
and  Father  is  in  the  study,  so  we  came  here,"  said 
Pipette. 


PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE          157 

Pip  expressed  his  delight  rather  lamely,  and 
the  girls  sat  down. 

"You  must  endure  us  till  lunch,"  continued 
Pipette.  "I  suppose  you  know  that  this  is  the 
day  of  the  Blanes'  garden-party?"  6 

"So  it  is!  I  had  forgotten." 

Pipette  smiled  amiably  and  turned  to  her 
friend. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"~she  said. 

"You  said,"  replied  Miss  Innes,  "that  he 
would  say  he  had  forgotten  all  about  it." 

"Pip,  dear,"  continued  Pipette,  pointing  an 
accusing  finger,  "don't  think  you  can  deceive 
u$t" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  inquired  Pip  uneasily. 

"You  know,"  said  Pipette.   "Think." 

Pip  thought,  apparently  with  success.  "Oh," 
he  said,  growing  red  in  the  face,  —  he  had  never 
outgrown  that  childish  weakness,  —  "you  are  a 
little  ass,  Pipette!" 

Pipette  nodded  sagely  and  smiled  at  Miss 
Innes.  That  young  person  smiled  indulgently 
upon  Pip,  and  heaved  a  little  sigh  which  inti- 
mated that  boys  would  be  boys. 

For  Pip  was  at  this  time  involved  in  the 
meshes  of  his  first  serious  love-affair.  Being 
without  skill  in  the  art  of  dissimulation,  he 
made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  condition,  and 
in  consequence  was  now  acting  as  target  for  the 


158         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

playful  and  occasionally  rather  heavy  banter  of 
his  friends.  Why,  goodness  knows!  We  have 
grown  so  accustomed  to  regard  the  youthful  lover 
as  an  object  of  humour,  that  a  young  man,  if  he 
happens  to  fall  in  love,  is  now  compelled  to  con- 
ceal the  fact,  or,  at  any  rate,  dress  it  up,  and 
endeavour  to  pass  the  affair  off  as  at  most  a 
mere  airy  flirtation. 

Now,  roughly  speaking,  a  man  is  in  love  from 
his  fifteenth  birthday  onwards:  nature  has  or- 
dained it.  But  in  most  cases  civilisation,  con- 
vention, society  —  call  it  what  you  like  —  has 
ordained  that  he  must  not  treat  this,  the  most 
inspiring  passion  of  human  life,  as  anything  more 
than  a  jest  for  another  ten  years  or  so.  And 
therein  lie  more  little  tragedies  —  disintegrated 
castles-in-the-air,  secret  disappointments,  and 
endless  efforts  of  self -repression  —  than  this 
world  dreams  of.  The  boy  may  keep  the  girl's 
photograph  on  his  mantelpiece,  and  that  is  just 
about  all  he  may  keep.  Contrast  with  this  the 
happy  case  of  the  girl.  If  she  chooses  to  fall  in 
love  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  nothing  is  deemed 
prettier  or  more  natural :  she  is  at  liberty  to  enjoy 
her  birthright  openly;  she  receives  sympathetic 
assistance  on  every  hand;  and  if  at  the  age  of 
nineteen  or  twenty  she  decides  to  marry,  society 
comes  and  sheds  rapturous  tears  at  the  wedding. 
What  of  the  boy  who  has  been  her  playmate  for 


PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE          159 

years  back;  who  has  taken  the  lead  in  all  their 
childish  escapades;  who  has  been  her  trusted 
guardian  and  confidant  ever  since  they  pulled 
crackers  and  kissed  under  the  mistletoe  at  chil- 
dren's parties?  What  of  him?  He  is  still  a  boy. 
True,  he  is  a  year  older  than  she  is,  but  by  an 
immutable  law  he  is  for  all  practical  purposes 
ten  years  her  junior.  She  has  sprung  up  at  a 
stroke  of  some  mysterious  magician's  wand  into 
a  woman,  a  personage  with  an  acknowledged 
position  in  the  scheme  of  things;  and  he,  her  old 
sweetheart,  is  only  a  poor,  broken-hearted  hob- 
bledehoy. He  will  get  over  it,  you  say?  Quite 
true.  But  that  will  not  make  things  any  easier 
for  him  at  present.  Ten  years  later  he  will  take  a 
girl  away  from  some  other  hobbledehoy  and 
marry  her.  He  will  then  be  in  the  prime  of  young 
manhood ;  and  he  will  behold  his  first  love,  plump, 
matronly,  and  rather  passee,  sitting  in  a  back 
pew  at  the  wedding.  It  seems  rather  a  dull  sort 
of  revenge,  somehow. 

Of  course  boy  and  girl  marriages  would  never 
do.  Joint  inexperience  is  a  sure  guarantee  of 
disaster.  Still,  sentimental  persons  may  be  per- 
mitted one  sigh  of  regret  for  a  millennium  which, 
however  hopelessly  idyllic  and  unpractical  it 
might  be,  would  at  any  rate  prevent  young  men 
from  marrying  wealthy  widows,  and  pretty  girls 
from  giving  themselves,  in  exchange  for  a  posi- 


160         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  ... 

tion  in  society,  to  middle-aged  gentlemen  with 
five-figure  incomes.  And  if  a  young  man  must 
spend  the  best  years  of  his  life  in  repressing  his 
tenderest  instincts,  let  us  at  any  rate  refrain 
from  laughing  at  his  struggles. 

All  of  which  brings  us  back  to  Pip. 

The  female  sex  exercised  a  more  than  usual 
fascination  over  him.  Brought  up  in  a  circle 
almost  exclusively  male,  —  Pipette  was  too  com- 
pletely subservient  to  himself  to  have  any  direct 
influence  on  the  moulding  of  his  character,  — 
Pip  regarded  women  in  general  much  as  the  poor 
Indian  regards  the  sun,  moon,  and  other  heavenly 
bodies,  —  as  things  not  to  be  understood  or  ap- 
proached, but  merely  to  be  worshipped.  Pip  was 
a  Galahad,  —  an  extremely  reserved,  slow-mov- 
ing, and,  at  times,  painfully  shy  Galahad, — 
but  a  very  perfect  gentle  knight  for  all  that.  He 
treated  all  women,  from  his  sister's  friends  to  the 
most  plebeian  young  person  who  ever  dispensed 
refreshment  across  a  bar,  with  a  grave  courtesy 
which  the  more  frivolous  members  of  that  cap- 
tious sex  occasionally  found  rather  dull. 

Such  a  girl  was  Miss  Madeline  Carr.  Pip  had 
met  her  six  months  before  on  a  visit  to  the  home 
of  his  friend  Dick  Blane,  and,  being  a  healthy 
young  man  and  twenty-one,  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her.  Being  Pip,  he  did  the  thing  thoroughly, 
and  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  devotion. 


PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE          161 

Unfortunately,  Madeline  was  of  a  type,  not  un- 
common, which  only  wants  what  it  cannot  get, 
and  thinks  but  little  of  what  may  be  had  for 
nothing. 

She  was  an  exceedingly  pretty  girl  of  twenty, 
in  her  second  season,  and  consequently  almost 
sufficiently  worldly-wise  to  be  Pip's  mother. 
Having  made  an  absolutely  bloodless  conquest 
of  Pip,  she  valued  him  accordingly,  and  Pip 
was  now  beginning  to  realise  that  there  must 
be  something  wrong  with  an  attachment  which 
consisted  of  perpetual  devotion  on  the  one  side 
and  nothing  but  an  occasional  careless  acknowl- 
edgment of  services  rendered  on  the  other.  Of 
late,  however,  the  situation  had  improved. 
Madeline  had  come  up  to  Cambridge  for  the 
May  Week,  and  finding  that  Pip  occupied  a  posi- 
tion of  authority  and  even  admiration  among  his 
fellows  that  she  had  never  dreamed  of,  and  of 
which  she  had  gathered  no  hint  from  Pip's  own 
references  to  his  'Varsity  life,  Miss  Carr  decided 
in  her  shrewd,  business-like,  and  thoroughly 
cold-blooded  little  heart  that,  for  the  time  being, 
considerable  kudos  might  accrue  to  her  as  the 
exclusive  proprietress  of  the  most  popular  man 
of  his  year.  Consequently  for  a  brief  week  Pip 
had  basked  in  the  unaccustomed  sunshine  of  her 
smiles;  and  though  there  had  been  a  perceptible 
lowering  of  temperature  since  their  return  to 


162        FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

town,  he  was  still  about  as  cheerful  as  a  man  in 
love  has  any  right  to  be. 

He  turned  to  Miss  Innes. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  party?"  he  asked. 

"Look  at  me!"  replied  his  guest.  "No,  not 
at  my  face,"  —  Pip  was  regarding  her  resolutely 
between  the  eyes,  —  "my  clothes.  Can't  you  see 
I'm  dressed  for  a  party?" 

"Ah!"  remarked  Pip  meditatively,  shifting 
his  gaze  lower  down,  "I  see.  You  are  coming 
with  us,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  us,"  interposed  Pipette,  —  "you." 

"What!  are  n't  you  coming  yourself?" 

"No.  The  Lindons  are  to  be  here  for  lunch, 
and  I  must  stay  and  entertain  the  old  lady  while 
Father  and  Sir  John  sit  in  the  study  and  talk 
shop." 

"Bad  luck!"  replied  Pip.  "Sir  John  Lindon 
and  the  dad  are  always  searching  about  inside 
people  and  finding  new  diseases,"  he  explained, 
turning  to  Elsie.  "It  is  called  Research.  I  re- 
member once  in  the  'lab*  at  — " 

"So  you  must  escort  Miss  Innes,  Pip,"  said 
Pipette  hastily. 

"Right!  That  will  be  first-rate,"  said  Pip, 
with  a  heartiness  which  quite  surprised  himself. 

Presently  they  went  down  to  lunch,  and  after 
Pip  had  arrayed  himself  in  tennis  costume,  the 
two  set  off  for  the  Blanes'  garden-party. 


PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE         163 

It  was  the  last  week  in  June.  Term  was  over, 
and  ten  places  had  been  filled  up  in  the  Cam- 
bridge Eleven  against  Oxford.  Pip  so  far  had 
not  received  his  Blue.  He  had  just  completed 
his  first  year,  for  he  had  not  gone  direct  from 
school  to  the  University,  partly  because  his 
attainments  were  not  quite  up  to  the  standard 
of  the  Previous  Examination,  and  partly  because 
he  had  never  quite  shaken  off  the  effects  of  his 
fall  in  the  dormitory  that  eventful  night  two- 
and-a-half  years  ago.  A  trip  round  the  world 
with  a  tutor  had  corrected  these  deficiencies, 
and  Pip  was  now  at  the  end  of  his  period  of 
"Fresherdom"  at  the  University  of  Cambridge. 

But  somehow  all  was  not  well  with  his  cricket. 
He  had  been  tried  against  the  M.C.C.  and  had 
not  been  a  success.  His  chief  rival,  Honeyburn 
of  Trinity,  had  been  tried  against  Yorkshire,  and 
had  been  a  failure.  The  University  captain  had 
been  reduced  to  experimenting  with  a  lob-bowler, 
and  such  a  creature  had  been  tried  against  an 
England  Eleven  a  week  before.  But  though  he 
had  taken  two  good  wickets  they  had  cost  forty- 
four  runs  apiece;  and  his  further  services  had 
been  dispensed  with.  So  the  last  place  was  still 
unsettled.  Pip,  knowing  that  University  cap- 
tains very  seldom  go  back  to  their  first  loves,  had 
little  hope  of  being  chosen,  though  he  had  a 
good  college  record.  Most  probably  the  cap- 


164         FIRST,   THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

tain,  rendered  desperate,  would  fall  back  on  some 
well-tried  friend  of  his  own  on  whom  he  could 
rely  to  a  certain,  if  limited,  extent;  or  else  — 
horror  of  horrors !  —  bring  up  some  last  year's 
Blue,  dug  out  of  an  office  or  a  public  school,  and 
so  blight  the  last  faint  pretensions  of  all  those 
gentlemen  who  were  still  hoping  to  be  chosen, 
if  only  in  the  humble  role  of  a  pis  alter. 

It  was  now  Wednesday,  and  Cambridge  was  to 
play  Oxford  at  Lord's  on  the  following  Monday. 
Pip  was  a  phlegmatic  youth,  but  the  knowledge 
that  Cayley,  the  Cambridge  captain,  who  was 
Mrs.  Blane's  nephew,  would  probably  be  at  the 
garden-party,  gave  him  a  vague  feeling  of  un- 
rest. Perhaps  Cayley  had  not  made  up  his  mind 
yet;  perhaps  the  proverb  about  "out  of  sight  out 
of  mind"  was  capable  of  working  negatively; 
perhaps  — 

"Do  you  imagine  you  are  entertaining  me?" 
inquired  a  cold  voice  at  his  side. 

Pip  started  guiltily.  "I  had  forgotten  you 
were  there,"  he  said. 

"I  thought  you  had,"  said  Miss  Innes  com- 
posedly. 

Pip  smiled  at  her  in  his  most  friendly  and 
disarming  fashion.  "Very  rude  of  me,"  he  con- 
tinued: "I'm  sorry.  The  fact  is,  I  never  can 
think  of  things  to  say  to  people." 

"Why  not  tell  me  what  has  been  going  on 


PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE          165 

in  your  mind  all  this  time?"  suggested  the  girl. 
"That  would  be  something." 

"Oh,  that  was  only  cricket,"  said  Pip. 

"I  thought  so.  You  were  wondering  if  you 
were  going  to  get  your  Blue." 

Pip  turned  and  regarded  this  discerning  young 
person  with  increasing  interest. 

"How  did  you  guess  that?" 

"Well,  it  was  not  very  difficult.  I  should  be 
too,  if  I  were  in  your  place.  The  papers  are 
quite  full  of  it.  'The  Sportsman'  says  — " 

"Do  you  read  'The  Sportsman'?"  asked  Pip, 
much  softened. 

"Yes;  and  of  course  I  read  'The  Field'  on  Sat- 
urdays. Now,  tell  me  what  you  were  twisting 
your  left  wrist  about  for?" 

"Great  Scott!  Was  I?"  cried  Pip,  turning 
pink. 

"Yes;  and  you  were  skipping  about  just  like 
you  do  when  you  run  up  to  the  wicket  to  bowl." 

Pip  was  too  perturbed  by  this  information  to 
notice  the  compliment  implied  by  Miss  Innes's 
familiarity  with  his  bowling  action. 

"I  must  have  looked  an  ass,"  he  said  apolo- 
getically. "Bad  luck  on  you,  too!" 

"Oh,  I  was  all  right.  I  walked  a  yard  or  two 
behind.  People  did  n't  know  I  was  with  you." 

"Oh!"  said  Pip,  rather  sheepishly. 

"And  as  I  was  watching  your  action,"  con- 


166         FIRST,   THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

tinued  the  girl  judicially,  "I  thought  of  some- 
thing —  just  as  you  dodged  round  that  old  gentle- 
man at  the  corner  of  Reedham  Gardens." 

"I  did  n't  notice  him,"  said  Pip  humbly. 

"No?  Well,  he  noticed  you,  I  think,  because 
he  stopped  and  spoke  to  the  policeman  at  the 
corner  after  he  had  passed  us,"  said  the  girl 
gravely. 

"I  seem  to  have  been  going  it.  But  what  was 
the  thing  you  thought  of  ?  " 

"Well,  you  bowl  left-handed." 

"Yes;  I  know." 

"You  run  up  to  the  wicket  in  rather  a  queer 
way,  as  though  you  were  going  to  bowl  at  point, 
and  then  you  suddenly  swing  round  the  corner 
and  let  the  batsman  have  it  instead." 

"Quite  right.   But  where  on  earth  — ?" 

"Don't  interrupt!  I  am  speaking  to  you  for 
your  good."  The  girl  was  genuinely  in  earnest 
now.  "Well,  you  always  bowl  over  the  wicket, 
don't  you?" 

"Yes;  why  not?" 

Elsie  looked  at  him  severely. 

"  Don't  you  see  what  a  grand  chance  you  have 
been  throwing  away  all  this  tune?"  she  said. 
"If  you  bowled  round  the  wicket,  you  would  — " 

"I  see,  I  see!"  roared  Pip,  slapping  his  leg. 
"Confound  my  thick  head!  The  umpire!  If  I 
bowl  over  the  wicket  I'm  in  full  view  of  the 


PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE          167 

batsman  all  the  time;  but  with  my  diagonal  run, 
if  I  bowled  round  the  wicket  I  should  pass  behind 
the  umpire  just  before  delivering  the  ball,  and 
so  bother  the  batsman?  Is  that  it?" 

"That's  it.  You  should  have  thought  it  out 
for  yourself  years  ago,"  said  the  girl  reprovingly. 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  their  ar- 
rival at  Mrs.  Blane's  house. 

Miss  Innes  was  immediately  snapped  up  to 
play  tennis,  and  Pip  drifted  off  in  search  of  the 
lady  to  whom  he  was  wont  to  refer  with  mingled 
pride  and  depression  as  his  "best  girl."  They 
greeted  each  other  in  their  usual  manner,  the 
balance  of  cordiality  being  heavily  on  Pip's  side; 
and  Miss  Carr  inquired  — 

"Who  is  your  friend  —  the  school-girl  person 
in  the  white  frock?" 

Pip,  anxious  to  clear  himself  of  any  appear- 
ance of  faithlessness,  explained  that  Miss  Innes 
was  a  friend  of  his  sister's,  and  hastened  on  his 
own  part  to  disclaim  anything  approaching  in- 
timacy with  the  lady.  He  then  craved  the  favour 
of  a  game  of  croquet. 

"Not  at  present,"  said  Miss  Carr,  who  had 
just  been  introduced  to  a  young  Guardsman, — 
"I'll  see  later.  But  you  can  go  and  get  me  some 
strawberries  and  bring  them  over  to  the  croquet- 
lawn." 

Pip  departed  as  bidden;  but  somehow  he  was 


168         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

not  conscious  of  the  glow  of  heroic  devotion 
that  usually  actuated  him  when  obeying  Made- 
line Carr's  behests.  He  had  a  feeling  that  she 
might  have  said  "Please!"  and  a  further  feeling 
that  "other  people"  —  no  further  specification 

—  would  have  done  so  at  once. 

At  this  point  in  his  reflections  he  arrived  at 
the  croquet-lawn  with  the  strawberries,  and  was 
promptly  commanded  to  put  them  down  and 
stand  by  for  further  orders.  This  treatment, 
customary  though  it  was,  annoyed  him;  and, 
feeling  unusually  independent  and  assertive,  he 
drifted  behind  a  rhododendron  bush,  where  he 
encountered  his  crony,  Mr.  Richard  Blane,  the 
son  of  the  house,  who  was  enjoying  a  quiet  cigar- 
ette during  a  brief  lull  in  the  arduous  labour  of 
dispensing  hospitality. 

"Hallo,  Pip!" 

"Hallo!" 

"Cigarette?" 

"Thanks." 

The  two  smoked  silently  for  a  moment,  sitting 
side  by  side  on  the  garden-roller. 

"I  say,"  inquired  Mr.  Blane,  "who  is  that 
flapper  you  brought  with  you?  All  right  — 
eh?" 

" Name  of  Innes,"  replied  Pip  shortly.  "Scotch 

—  pal  of  Pipette's." 

"Seems  to  be  a  pal  of  Cayley's,  too,"  said 


PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE          169 

Blane.  "They  were  having  a  quiet  ice  in  the 
shrubbery  just  now.  Very  thick,  they  looked." 

"Is  Cayley  here,  then?"  said  Pip,  looking 
more  interested. 

"Yes.   Has  he  given  you  your  Blue  yet?" 

Pip  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"Bad  luck!  Well,  there  are  still  a  few  days. 
I  expect  he  is  waiting  to  see  if  the  wicket  is 
going  to  be  hard  or  soft." 

"I  suppose  he  has  n't  given  it  to  Honeyburn?" 

"Don't  think  so." 

"I  expect  he  will,"  said  Pip  in  resigned  tones. 

"Rot!  You  seem  to  be  fearfully  down  on  your 
luck  this  afternoon,  old  man.  Come  and  have  an 
orgy  of  claret-cup.  It's  about  all  we  keep  to- 
day." Mr.  Blane  rose  from  the  roller,  brushing 
some  blades  of  grass  from  his  immaculate  flan- 
nels. 

"Sorry  —  can't,"  said  Pip.  "Miss  Carr  said 
she  might  be  able  to  play  croquet  with  me  about 
now,"  he  explained  awkwardly. 

Dick  knew  all  about  his  infatuation. 

"Pip,"  said  that  youthful  sage,  inclining  his 
head  at  a  judicial  angle,  "you  drop  that  girl! 
She's  the  wrong  sort." 

"Look  here,  Dick  — "  began  Pip  indignantly. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  continued  the  voice  of  the 
misogynist.  "She's  perfect  and  all  that;  but  no 
woman  is  worth  the  seriousness  you  are  putting 


170         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

into  this  business.  I  believe  it's  spoiling  your 
eyes,  for  one  thing.  Madeline  Carr  is  simply 
making  use  of  you.  You  see  how  she  is  behaving 
just  now  —  playing  a  sort  of  in-and-out  game? 
Well,  she  is  waiting  to  see  if  you  get  your  Blue. 
If  you  do,  she  will  trot  about  with  you  during 
the  luncheon  interval  at  Lord's,  and  so  on.  It'll 
make  the  other  girls  jealous.  If  you  don't  —  well, 
she'll  have  no  use  for  you.  Oh,  I  know  'em!" 
The  orator  wagged  his  head  and  paused  for 
breath. 

To  Pip  most  of  this  diatribe  was  rank  blas- 
phemy, but  he  felt  uncomfortably  conscious  that 
there  was  some  truth  in  his  friend's  remarks. 
Still,  he  stood  up  stoutly  for  his  ideal. 

"Don't talk  rot,  Dick! "he  said.  "There  may 
be  a  few  women  like  that,  —  just  one  or  two,  — 
but  this  girl  is  n't  one  of  them.  Why,  you  have 
only  got  to  look  at  her  face  to  see  that!" 

The  world-weary  Blane  surveyed  his  friend 
with  something  approaching  consternation. 

"A  bad  case!"  he  remarked,  shaking  his  head. 
"Her  face?  My  boy,  faces  are  the  most  decep- 
tive things  in  the  world." 

"Hers  isn't,"  maintained  Pip.  "She  is  most 
sincere.  You  have  only  to  look  her  in  the  eyes 
to  see  what  is  going  on  inside." 

He  stopped  suddenly.  He  realised  that  he 
was  growing  too  communicative. 


PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE          171 

"Eyes?  That's  just  it.  A  girl  makes  eyes  at 
you,  Pip,  and  you  crumple  up.  I  had  no  idea 
you  were  in  such  a  drivelling  state  as  this,  or  I 
should  have  jawed  you  sooner.  Come  and  drink 
stimulants,  —  claret-cup,  lemonade,  iced-coffee, 
anything  to  drown  the  past,  —  but  come.  And 
never  again,  after  this  experience,  trust  a  girl 
with  big  eyes  and  little  ways." 

So  saying,  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution  took 
the  counsel  for  the  defence  by  the  arm,  and  the 
two,  nobly  sinking  their  differences  in  a  common 
cause,  cast  their  cigarettes  away  and  sallied  forth 
to  distribute  tea  and  ices  among  hungry  chap- 
erons and  plain  girls. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Elsie  Innes  and  the  Cam- 
bridge captain  were  conversing  in  a  retired  part 
of  the  garden.  An  introduction  had  been  ef- 
fected by  Miss  Blane,  though  at  whose  instiga- 
tion need  not  concern  us. 

Cayley,  whose  conversational  stock-in-trade 
was  limited,  was  feeling  unusually  complacent. 
The  conversation  had  never  flagged  once,  for  this 
girl,  though  obviously  young  and  inexperienced, 
had  proved  herself  to  be  intelligent  and  appre- 
ciative beyond  her  years. 

"I  suppose  you  are  going  to  beat  Oxford,"  said 
Miss  Innes,  looking  at  her  companion  with  in- 
nocent admiration. 

"That  is  a  large  question,"  replied  Cayley 


172         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  ... 

heavily.  "These  things  are  n't  settled  by  the 
spin  of  a  coin.  But  we  are  going  to  do  our  best," 
he  added,  with  an  indulgent  smile. 

"Have  you  picked  your  team  yet?" 

"All  but  one.   I  want  another  bowler." 

"I  see.   What  sort  of  bowler?" 

"A  good  bowler,"  replied  the  captain,  face- 
tiously. It  was  hardly  worth  while  wasting 
technicalities  on  a  girl. 

"Oh!   Can't  you  find  one?" 

"I  have  got  three  in  my  eye,  but  I  can  only 
choose  one." 

"I  saw  the  Cambridge  Eleven  play  against 
the  M.C.C.,"  said  Miss  Innes,  apparently  chang- 
ing the  subject. 

"Which  day?" 

"The  second.   You  made  sixty-nine,  not  out." 

Mr.  Cayley,  much  gratified,  coughed  con- 
fusedly. 

"Oh,  that  was  a  fluke,"  he  said.  "The  diffi- 
culty that  day  was  to  get  wickets." 

"There  was  one  Cambridge  bowler,"  continued 
the  girl,  "who  looked  as  though  he  ought  to  take 
wickets  but  did  n't." 

"Who  was  that?"  inquired  the  captain,  much 
amused. 

"A  man  with  black  hair  and  blue  eyes." 

Mr.  Cayley  scratched  his  nose  reflectively. 
His  recollections  of  the  eyes  of  his  team  were 


PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE          173 

vague.  Their  individual  shades  he  had  never 
observed,  though  he  had  frequently  condemned 
them  collectively. 

"Well,  really  — "  he  said.  "Do  you  remember 
anything  else  about  him?'* 

"  He  was  a  medium-paced,  left-handed  bowler, 
breaking  both  ways,  with  a  good  deal  of  swerve 
as  well,"  said  Miss  Innes,  becoming  suddenly 
and  surprisingly  technical:  "he  had  a  curious 
oblique  run,  and  he  usually  bowled  about  one 
really  fast  ball  every  over." 

"Oh  —  Pip!"  said  the  captain  at  once. 

"That  is  the  name,"  said  the  girl;  "I  remember 
now,  when  a  catch  went  to  him  in  the  outfield, 
you  called  out,  'Run  for  it,  Pip!'" 

"That's  him,"  said  Cayley.  "Yes,  he  has 
been  disappointing  lately.  He  is  a  good  bowler, 
too;  but  somehow  he  is  not  taking  wickets  at 
present." 

"Have  you  ever  tried  him  round  the  wick- 
et?" asked  Elsie.  "With  his  run  he  would  pass 
behind  the  umpire  just  before  delivering  the 
ball." 

The  captain  was  fairly  startled  this  time.  He 
turned  and  regarded  the  ingenue  beside  him  with 
undisguised  interest  and  admiration. 

"I  say,"  he  remarked,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
has  just  made  a  profound  discovery,  "you  know 
something  about  cricket!" 


174         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

Miss  Innes,  much  to  his  surprise,  blushed  like 
a  little  schoolboy  at  the  compliment. 

"I  was  brought  up  to  it,"  she  said.  "I  am  a 
sister  of  Raven  Innes." 

Then  the  captain  understood;  and  he  almost 
fell  at  her  feet,  for  the  name  of  Raven  Innes  is 
honourably  known  from  Lord's  to  Melbourne. 

"Do  you  play  yourself?"  he  asked. 

"A  bit.  I  don't  bat  quite  straight,  but  I  can 
bowl  a  little.  Leg-breaks,"  she  added,  with  a 
touch  of  pride. 

The  captain's  appreciative  reverie  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  appearance  of  a  third  party  — 
Pip,  to  wit  —  who  now  drifted  into  view  and  hov- 
ered rather  disconsolately  in  the  offing,  as  if  un- 
certain whether  to  approach.  He  was  a  prey  to 
melancholy,  having  just  completed  a  final  rup- 
ture with  Madeline  Carr,  and  under  the  stress  of 
subsequent  reaction  was  anxious  to  escape  home. 

"Hallo!"  said  Cayley.  "There's  your  man, 
Miss  Innes." 

Miss  Innes  glanced  in  Pip's  direction. 

"So  it  is.  I  can  recognise  him,"  she  answered, 
with  an  ah*  of  gratified  surprise.  "Will  you  take 
me  to  have  some  strawberries  now,  please?" 

The  couple  departed,  leaving  Pip  still  hove-to 
on  the  horizon. 

"Rum  things,  women,"  mused  the  captain. 
"This  girl's  quite  out  of  the  common.  I  thought 


PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE          175 

at  first  she  must  be  keen  on  Pip,  or  something; 
but  she  does  n't  seem  even  to  know  him.  Not 
often  you  get  a  woman  taking  a  purely  sporting 
interest  in  a  man  like  that!" 

Which  is  nothing  but  the  truth. 

Delighted  to  find  a  woman  possessed  of  "  some 
sense,"  Cayley,  who  was  by  nature  a  homely  per- 
son with  bachelor  instincts,  unbent  still  further, 
with  the  result  that  the  end  of  a  long  bout  of 
cricket  "shop"  with  Elsie  found  him  fully  con- 
vinced —  somewhat  to  his  surprise,  for  he  had 
hitherto  been  unable  to  make  up  his  mind  on 
the  subject  —  that  Pip  was  exactly  the  man 
he  wanted  for  next  Monday. 

Elsie  finally  joined  Pip,  who  was  waiting, 
slightly  depressed,  to  take  her  away. 

"Had  a  good  time?"  she  inquired  brightly,  as 
they  walked  home. 

"Rotten,"  said  Pip. 

"Did  n't  you  meet  any  friends?" 

"Yes,  a  good  many  'Varsity  men." 

"I  meant  lady  friends." 

"I  have  n't  got  any,"  said  Pip  glumly. 

"You  should  speak  the  truth,"  said  his  com- 
panion with  some  acerbity.  "How  about  Miss 
Carr?" 

Pip  glanced  at  her;  and  then,  moved  by  an 
impulse  which  he  did  not  quite  understand  at  the 
time,  he  said,  with  sudden  and  unwonted  heat,— 


176         FIRST,  THE  INFANT  .  .  . 

"I  never  wish  to  set  eyes  on  Miss  Carr  again." 

After  this  outburst  they  walked  on  silently, 
till  they  came  to  a  house  in  Sussex  Gardens. 

"I  live  here,"  said  Miss  Innes.  "Good-bye, 
and  thank  you  so  much  for  bringing  me  home." 

They  shook  hands. 

"When  shall  I  see  you  again?"  said  Pip 
regretfully. 

The  girl  smiled  at  his  frank  seriousness. 

"Lord's,  on  Monday,"  she  said.  "Come  and 
see  me  in  the  luncheon  hour,  or  before,  if  Cam- 
bridge is  batting." 

"I  say,"  said  Pip  gruffly,  "are  n't  you  rather 
taking  things  for  granted?" 

"You  mean  your  coming  to  see  me?" 

"Gracious,  no!"  cried  Pip  in  genuine  distress. 
"I  meant  about  my  playing." 

Elsie  Innes  looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 
"Pip,"  she  said,  "do  you  wear  gloves?" 

Pip  extended  two  enormous  palms  and  in- 
spected them  doubtfully.  "Sometimes,"  he  said 
—  "at  weddings." 

"Very  good.  I'll  bet  you  ten  pairs  of  gloves 
to  one  that  you  get  your  Blue." 

"  Don't ! "  said  Pip  appealingly.  "  You  could  n't 
afford  it.  I  take  nines." 

"My  size,"  said  Miss  Innes,  "is  six-and-a- 
quarter.  White  kid  —  eight  buttons.  Good- 
bye!" 


PETTICOAT  INFLUENCE          177 

She  turned  and  vanished  into  the  recesses  of 
the  hall,  a  receding  vision  of  white  frock,  glinting 
hair,  and  black  bow. 

After  Pip  had  walked  down  two  streets  and 
halfway  across  a  square,  he  stopped  suddenly 
and  dealt  his  leg  a  blow  with  a  tennis-racquet 
that  would  have  maimed  an  ordinary  limb  for 
life. 

"By  gad,"  he  cried  to  a  scandalised  pug-dog 
which  was  taking  the  evening  air  on  an  adjacent 
doorstep,  "she  called  me  Pip!" 

Next  morning  he  received  a  communication 
from  the  authorities  of  the  Cambridge  University 
Cricket  Club. 

An  hour  later  he  was  being  shepherded,  scarlet 
in  the  face,  by  a  posse  of  stentorian  shopwalkers, 
through  an  embarrassing  wilderness  of  ladies' 
hosiery  to  the  Glove  Department  of  an  establish- 
ment in  Oxford  Street. 


BOOK  TWO 
THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 


CHAPTER  VII 

A   CRICKET    WEEK 
I 

BY  the  time  that  Pip  had  reached  his  twenty- 
fifth  year  his  name  was  scarcely  less  familiar  to 
the  man  in  the  street  than  that  of  the  leading 
picture-postcard  divinity,  and  considerably  more 
so  than  that,  say,  of  the  President  of  the  Royal 
Academy.  The  English  are  a  strange  race,  and 
worship  strange  gods.  Pip's  admission  to  the 
national  Pantheon  had  been  secured  by  the  fact 
of  his  having  been  mainly  responsible  for  the 
sensational  dismissal  of  the  Australians,  for  an 
infinitesimal  score,  in  the  second  innings  of  the 
third  Test  Match. 

The  morning  papers  referred  to  him  as  "that 
phenomenal  trundler,  the  young  Middlesex 
amateur";  the  sporting  press  hailed  him  as  "the 
left-handed  devastation-merchant";  and  the 
evening  "specials"  called  him  "Pip,"  pure  and 
simple. 

To  do  him  justice,  Pip  cared  for  none  of  these 
things.  He  was  much  more  concerned  with  the 
future  than  the  present.  He  had  scraped  a  pass 
degree  at  Cambridge,  and  was  now  nominally 
studying  medicine.  But  he  knew  in  his  heart 


182        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

that  he  had  not  the  brains  to  succeed  in  his 
task,  and  he  persevered  only  to  please  his  father, 
who,  though  he  admitted  that  his  son  could 
never  hope  to  put  up  a  specialist's  plate  in  Har- 
ley  Street,  considered  him  (just  as  a  race-horse 
might  consider  that  anything  on  four  legs  can 
haul  a  cab)  quite  capable  of  doing  well  in  a 
country  practice. 

One  morning  in  July  Pip  received  an  invitation 
to  play  in  the  Rustleford  Cricket  Week,  an  hon- 
our calculated  to  inflate  the  chest  of  any  rising 
amateur  with  legitimate  pride.  John  Chell,  the 
Squire  of  Rustleford  Manor,  was  of  a  type  now 
too  rare.  An  old  Grandwich  captain,  an  old 
Oxford  captain,  and  an  old  All  England  Eleven 
player,  descended  from  a  long  line  of  top-hatted 
cricketers,  he  devoted  what  he  called  his  "de- 
clining years"  to  fostering  the  spirit  of  the  game. 
Rustleford  Manor  was  one  of  the  strongholds  of 
English  cricket.  John  Chell's  reputation  as  a 
judge  of  the  game  was  a  recognised  asset  of  the 
English  Selection  Committee,  and  more  than  one 
great  professional  had  received  his  first  chance 
on  the  Rustleford  ground. 

Pip  was  not  intimately  acquainted  with  John 
Chell,  though  he  had  frequently  met  him  at 
Lord's  and  elsewhere,  and  had  known  his  son 
Jacky  at  Cambridge.  But  he  was  genuinely 
pleased  with  this  recognition  of  his  merit.  It 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  183 

was  a  thing  apart  from  journalistic  celebrity  and 
the  adulation  of  a  Surrey  crowd.  No  man  was 
invited  to  Rustleford  who  was  not  a  cricketer, 
out  and  out;  and  a  man  who  played  in  the 
Rustleford  Manor  Eleven  was  hall-marked  for 
life. 

The  night  before  his  departure  he  dined  alone 
with  his  father.  Pipette  was  out  at  the  theatre. 

The  great  physician  looked  aged  and  ill,  and 
Pip,  noticing  this  for  the  first  time,  —  we  are 
unobservant  creatures  where  our  daily  com- 
panions are  concerned,  —  and  stricken  with  sud- 
den pity,  offered  to  abandon  his  cherished  cricket 
week  and  accompany  his  father  on  a  short  holi- 
day to  a  health  resort. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"Can't  get  away,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "Wish 
I  could.  But  it  can't  be  done.  I  have  consulta- 
tions every  day  for  five  weeks,  and  hospital  work 
as  well.  After  that,  perhaps  — " 

"After  that  your  fixture-card  will  have  been 
still  further  filled  up,"  said  Pip. 

His  father  laughed. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said.  "I  believe  it  will: 
it's  a  way  it  has." 

"Well,  why  not  fix  up  a  month's  holiday,  say 
in  five  weeks'  time,  and  stick  to  it?" 

"And  who  is  going  to  do  my  work?" 

"I  wish  7  could,"  said  Pip,  impulsively  for 


184        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

him.  "Dad,  I  must  be  a  devil  of  a  disappoint- 
ment to  you.  Fancy  you  —  and  me!" 

By  the  latter  rather  condensed  expression  Pip 
meant  to  express  his  surprise  that  such  a  clever 
father  should  have  produced  such  a  stupid  son. 

"We  don't  all  get  ten  talents,  old  man,"  said 
his  father.  "But  soon,  I  dare  say,  when  you  are 
qualified,  there  will  be  lots  — " 

Pip  put  down  his  glass  of  port. 

"Dad,  I  shall  never  be  qualified,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  have  n't  got  it  in  me.  You  are  so 
clever  that  you  can't  conceive  what  a  fool's 
brain  can  be  like.  I  tell  you  honestly  that  this 
thing  is  beyond  me,  Governor.  I  have  worked 
pretty  hard— " 

"I  know  that,"  said  his  father  heartily. 

" — And  I  think  I  am  rather  more  at  sea  now 
than  I  was  four  years  ago.  I  have  learned  a  few 
things  by  heart  —  anything  that  can  be  picked 
up  by  those  jingles  and  tips  that  coaches  give  one 
—  and  that  is  just  about  all.  Fancy  me  going 
over  a  patient's  ribs  and  mumbling  rhymes  to 
myself  to  remind  me  what  part  of  his  anatomy 
I  had  got  to!" 

Father  and  son  laughed.  Some  of  the  memoria 
technica  of  the  medical  student  are  peculiar. 

"I  have  been  meaning  to  tell  you  a  long  time," 
continued  Pip,  "but  I  saw  you  were  keen  on  my 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  185 

getting  through,  if  possible,  so  I  stuck  to  it.  I 
think  I  know  my  limits.  I  'm  not  cut  out  for  the 
learned  professions.  Fact  is,  I  'm  a  blamed  fool." 

They  smoked  on  silently  after  that.  The  doc- 
tor was  not  altogether  surprised  at  Pip's  out- 
burst, for  he  had  lately  been  realising,  from  the 
casual  utterances  of  lecturers  and  examiners  of 
his  acquaintance,  that  Pip's  prospects  were  hope- 
less. But  he  was  sadly  disappointed  for  all  that. 
He  had  been  a  lonely  man  all  his  life,  and  now, 
especially  that  his  health  was  uncertain,  he 
realised  the  unhappy  fact  that  his  son  —  his  big, 
strong,  healthy  son,  to  whose  intellectual  com- 
panionship he  had  looked  forward  so  eagerly  — 
was  never  to  give  him  a  shoulder  to  lean  on  save 
in  a  physical  sense. 

At  this  moment,  much  to  the  relief  of  both, 
the  door  opened  and  Pipette  came  in.  She  was 
just  twenty-two,  and  to  the  tired  man  in  the 
armchair  by  the  fire  she  was  her  mother  over 
again. 

She  threw  off  her  opera-cloak  and  wrap  and 
slipped  into  the  chair  beside  her  father.  Then 
after  one  brief  glance  into  his  face  she  inquired  — 

"Well,  old  boy,  what's  the  trouble?" 

"Pip  wants  me  to  go  for  a  holiday,"  said  her 
father. 

"Carried  unanimously!"  announced  Pipette. 
"When  shall  we  start?" 


186        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"Can't  be  done  at  present.  Too  busy." 

"Get  somebody  from  the  hospital  staff  to  do 
your  work." 

"Hear,  hear!  "said  Pip. 

Dr.  Wilmot  gazed  into  the  fire.  Presently  he 
said, — 

"It's  not  altogether  professional  work.  Pip, 
you  said  just  now  that  you  were  a  blamed  fool. 
Your  father  is  another." 

"Let  us  hear  all  about  it,"  said  Pipette 
maternally. 

"Well,  I  am  a  prosperous  man  as  professional 
men  go.  But  a  few  years  ago  I  realised  a  good 
many  of  my  investments  —  " 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

"I  sacrificed  my  savings  to  get  ready  money, 
to  finance  that  private  cancer-research  commis- 
sion that  Sir  John  Lindon  and  I  got  up,  —  you 
remember,  Pip?" 

"Yes;  go  on." 

"Well,  the  Government  ultimately  paid  the 
expenses  of  the  commission,  —  we  shamed  them 
into  it,  —  and  I  got  my  money  back.  When  I 
came  to  reinvest  it,  instead  of  putting  it  into  the 
old  safe  place,  I  devoted  most  of  it  to  buying 
shares  in  a  wild-cat  Australian  scheme  — " 

"Which  has  gone  bust?"  said  Pip. 

"Not  quite.  But  the  shares  are  down  to  the 
bottom  mark,  and  there  is  no  dividend.  I  believe 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  187 

the  thing  is  sound,  and  that  in  a  year  or  two  we 
shall  be  all  right  again.  Meanwhile  —  mean- 
while, children,  I  am  extremely  hard  up!'* 

To  people  who  have  never  been  hungrier  than 
an  unpunctual  cook  can  make  them,  the  pros- 
pect of  actual  poverty  is  always  rather  sobering. 
There  was  a  long  pause.  Presently  Pipette 
slipped  a  soft  and  protecting  arm  round  her 
father's  neck. 

"Dad,"  she  asked,  "why  did  you  buy  those 
queer  shares?" 

"To  get  rich  quick." 

"Why  quick?" 

"Because"  —  the  doctor  hesitated,  surveyed 
his  son  and  daughter  rather  doubtfully,  and 
finally  proceeded  —  "because  human  life  in  gen- 
eral is  an  uncertain  thing,  old  lady,  and  my  life 
in  particular  happens  to  be  —  don't  choke  me, 
child!" 

Pipette's  encircling  arm  had  grown  suddenly 
rigid,  and  her  father  heard  her  heart  flutter. 

" Wh —  what  do  you  mean,  Daddy?" 

"I  mean  that  I  possess  what  insurance  com- 
panies call  'a  bad  life.'  Nothing  serious  —  slight 
heart  trouble,  that 's  all.  I  shall  have  to  be  care- 
ful for  a  bit,  and  all  will  be  well.  It's  the  cracked 
pitcher  that  lasts  longest."  Dr.  Wilmot  had  un- 
consciously dropped  into  the  easy  and  optimistic 
tones  which  he  reserved  for  nervous  patients. 


188        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

After  a  little  further  conversation  Pip  and 
Pipette,  somewhat  reassured,  retired  to  bed. 

Next  morning  Pip  departed  to  Rustleford,  but 
not  before  he  had  conferred  briefly  with  Pipette. 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  leave  the  Gover- 
nor?" he  said. 

Pipette  puckered  her  alabaster  brow  thought- 
fully. 

"Yes;  why  not?"  she  replied  at  length.  "It 
is  n't  as  if  he  were  in  bed  or  anything.  He  '11  go 
to  his  work  just  the  same  whether  you  are  here 
or  not.  I  have  made  him  faithfully  promise  to 
come  away  for  a  holiday  for  the  whole  of  Sep- 
tember, so  we  must  just  let  him  have  his  way  just 
now.  You  go  and  enjoy  yourself,  little  man.  I  '11 
look  after  him.  Besides"  —  Pipette's  angelic 
features  relaxed  into  the  suspicion  of  a  smirk  — 
"I  heard  yesterday  that  a  particular  friend  of 
yours  was  to  be  there." 

"Who?  Linklater?" 

"No  — a  lady." 

" Not  Madeline— " 

"Dear  no.  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  her. 
Can't  you  guess?" 

Pip  turned  a  delicate  plum  colour. 

"Ah,  now  you  are  getting  nearer,"  said  Pi- 
pette. "It's  your  little  flapper  friend,  Elsie 
Innes.  How  long  is  it  since  you  saw  her?  " 

"  About  a  year,  I  think.   She  has  been  away 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  189 

from  town  a  lot  lately,"  replied  Pip,   rather 
incautiously. 

"She  has  put  her  hair  up,"  said  Pipette. 

ii 

That  evening  Pip  arrived  at  Rustleford. 

He  was  hospitably  greeted  by  John  Chell, 
introduced  to  Mrs.  Chell,  Miss  Emily  Chell,  and 
Miss  Dorothy  Chell,  renewed  his  acquaintance 
with  Jacky  Chell,  and  then  turned  to  the  in- 
spection of  the  rest  of  the  house-party,  most  of 
whom  were  known  to  him. 

The  cricketers  were  headed  by  Raven  Innes, 
a  little  past  his  best  now,  but  still  to  be  reckoned 
among  the  six  finest  bats  in  England.  Then 
came  Mallaby  and  Oake,  the  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge captains  for  that  year.  There  was  also  a 
comic  man  —  the  Squire  knew  well  that  it  takes 
all  sorts  to  make  an  Eleven  —  a  member  of  a 
noble  house,  with  a  polysyllabic  and  historic 
title;  but  nobody  ever  called  him  anything  but 
"  Cockles."  There  were  one  or  two  county  crick- 
eters of  established  merit,  with  or  against  whom 
Pip  had  waged  many  a  gallant  battle;  and  it  was 
reported  that  the  Squire  had  up  his  sleeve  a  young 
local  professional,  who  would  one  day  be  the 
finest  fast  bowler  in  England. 

Finally,  there  were  two  guests  who  require 
more  elaborate  introduction.  The  first  was  a 


190       THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

young  man  of  about  twenty-three.  His  name 
was  Gresley.  His  father  was  sole  proprietor  of 
the  Gresley  Motor  Works,  and  (it  was  said)  a 
man  of  millions.  He  had  sent  his  only  son  to 
Cambridge;  and  the  son,  a  shy  and  retiring  boy, 
after  devoting  his  first  two  years  to  the  study 
of  mechanical  science,  oblivious  of  the  glad  fact 
that  the  world  contained  other  things  to  do,  had 
suddenly  sprung  into  fame,  almost  malgre  lui,  as 
a  bowler  of  absolutely  natural  "googlies,"  which 
fearsome  term  means  an  off-break  with  a  leg- 
break  action.  This  priceless  talent  had  been 
accidentally  discovered  by  Pip  during  a  visit  to 
Gresley's  home  in  the  vacation,  in  the  course  of 
a  game  of  stump-cricket  on  the  lawn  after  lunch. 
A  year  later  Gresley  had  played  for  Cambridge 
at  Lord's,  with  a  success  which  had  qualified 
him  for  an  invitation  to  Rustleford.  Indeed  it 
was  to  him,  together  with  Pip  and  the  Squire's 
professional  dark  horse,  that  the  Eleven  looked 
for  its  wickets.  Gresley  was  a  small,  slim  fellow, 
looking  much  younger  than  he  really  was.  He 
had  been  brought  up  by  his  widowed  father  al- 
most by  hand,  and  had  never  been  to  a  public 
school.  He  was  not  quite  at  his  ease  in  a  crowd 
of  people,  and  was  devotedly  attached  to  Pip, 
who  had  done  him  more  than  one  good  turn  since 
they  became  acquainted. 

The  other  man,  Cullyngham,  was  of  a  very 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  191 

different  type;  and  indeed  Pip's  first  action  on 
catching  sight  of  him  playing  bridge  in  the  hall 
was  to  seek  out  Raven  Innes  and  inquire,  with 
unusual  heat,  what  "that  swine"  was  doing  in 
the  house. 

"Can't  say,  laddie,"  said  Innes.  "The  Squire 
asked  him,  not  I.  I  suppose  he  has  only  met  him 
casually,  and  just  knows  him  as  a  first-class 
cricketer." 

"First-class  cad!"  grumbled  Pip. 

"Quite  so,  my  son;  but  it's  not  our  house,  and 
he's  not  our  guest.  Still,  it  will  do  no  harm  to 
keep  an  eye  on  him." 

A  sudden  idea  struck  Pip. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  a  sound  scheme,"  he  sug- 
gested, "to  warn  your  young  sister  about  him?" 

Raven  cocked  an  inquiring  eye  at  him. 

"Why  her  in  particular?" 

"I  meant  all  of  them,"  corrected  Pip,  rather 
lamely. 

"I've  only  got  one." 

"No,  no;  I  meant  all  the  girls  here." 

"Not  much,"  said  the  sagacious  Raven; 
"they'd  be  after  him  like  bees!" 

After  that  the  conversation  reverted  to  ordi- 
nary channels,  and  Pip  was  apprised  of  the 
week's  programme.  On  the  morrow,  Wednesday, 
the  House  Eleven,  under  the  Squire  himself, 
would  play  the  village,  led  by  the  Vicar  —  a 


192       THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

time-honoured  fixture.  Thursday  would  be  an 
off -day;  on  Friday  they  would  meet  the  Grand- 
wich  Old  Boys,  who  were  on  tour  and  would 
put  up  at  "The  George";  and  on  Saturday 
would  come  the  tug-of-war,  the  match  against 
the  Gentlemen  of  the  County,  who  were  reputed 
to  have  whipped  up  a  red-hot  side. 

Pip,  who  had  arrived  late  for  tea,  met  the 
ladies  of  the  party  in  the  drawing-room  before 
dinner.  They  were  of  the  usual  diverse  types. 
There  was  Kitty  Davenport,  slangy  and  man- 
nish, who  would  not  thank  you  for  describing 
her  as  "a  charming  girl,"  but  would  be  your 
firm  friend  if  you  called  her  "a  good  sort." 
There  were  the  Misses  Chell,  fresh,  unaffected, 
and  healthily  English.  There  were  the  two  Cal- 
throp  girls,  pretty,  helpless,  and  clinging  —  a 
dangerous  sort  this,  O  young  man!  —  together 
with  an  assortment  of  girls  who  were  plain  but 
lively,  and  girls  who  were  dull  but  pretty,  and  a 
few  less  fortunate  girls  who  were  neither  lively 
nor  pretty.  There  was  a  solitary  "flapper"  of 
fifteen,  who,  untrammelled  as  yet  by  fear  of 
Mrs.  Grundy,  was  having  the  time  of  her  life 
with  the  two  callowest  members  of  the  Eleven. 

And  there  was  Elsie.  Pip  encountered  her 
suddenly  on  the  staircase.  She  was  clad  in  the 
severely  simple  white  frock  that  marks  the 
debutante,  and  her  lint-coloured  hair  was  "up," 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  193 

as  Pipette  had  said.  It  was  two  years  since 
Pip  had  seen  her,  for  she  had  been  to  a  finishing- 
school  in  Paris.  He  shook  her  hand  in  a  manner 
which  left  that  member  limp  and  bloodless  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  accompanied  her 
downstairs,  to  find  on  reaching  the  hall  that 
some  never-to-be-sufficiently-blessed  fairy  had 
arranged  that  he  was  to  take  her  in  to  dinner. 

The  most  confirmed  believer  in  the  decadence 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  might  have  been  con- 
verted by  the  sight  of  the  company  round  Squire 
Chell's  table  that  night.  Young  men  and  maid- 
ens, healthy,  noisy,  effervescent,  ate  and  drank, 
babbled  and  laughed,  flirted  and  squabbled  with 
whole-hearted  thoroughness  from  the  soup  to  the 
savoury;  and  Pip,  sitting  silently  ecstatic  by 
'Elsie,  beheld  the  scene  and  suddenly  realised 
that  life  was  very  good.  What  a  splendid  assem- 
blage !  The  girls,  of  course,  were  girls,  and  as  such 
beyond  criticism.  And  the  men?  Maybe  they 
were  youthful  and  conventional,  —  each  would 
probably  have  cut  his  own  father  dead  in  the 
street  if  he  had  met  him  wearing  a  made-up  tie, 
—  but  Pip  knew  that  they  were  for  the  most  part 
clean-run,  straight-going  people  like  himself, 
good  fellows,  "white"  men  all.  With  one  excep- 
tion. And  suddenly  Pip  realised  that  the  ex- 
ception was  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  Elsie. 

Cullyngham   was   smiling  and   talking.     He 


194        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

always  was  smiling.  He  smiled  when  he  made 
a  century.  He  smiled  when  he  made  a  blob.  He 
smiled  when  a  rising  ball  hit  him  on  the  knuckles. 
He  was  smiling  now,  and  Elsie  was  smiling  too; 
and  Pip  felt  suddenly  murderous. 

They  were  talking  of  golf.  Elsie,  who  had 
spent  most  of  her  life  on  the  east  coast  of  Scot- 
land, was  discussing  matters  that  were  Greek  to 
poor  cricketing  Pip,  —  stymies,  mashies,  Kites, 
Falcons,  and  other  fearful  wild-fowl,  —  and 
Cullyngham  was  offering  to  play  Elsie  a  match 
round  the  home  course  next  day.  A  brief  review 
in  Pip's  mind  of  the  most  expeditious  forms  of 
assassination  was  interrupted  by  a  cheery  hail 
across  the  table  from  Jacky  Chell,  a  hearty  but 
tactless  youth  of  boisterous  temperament. 

"Quite  like  old  times,  seeing  you  and  Cully 
together,  Pip,"  he  cried.  "Played  each  other 
any  billiard  matches  lately?  " 

Elsie  scented  a  story. 

"What  billiard  match?"  she  inquired,  turning 
to  Pip.  "Did  you  two  play  much  together  at 
Cambridge?" 

By  this  time  Jacky  Chell's  stentorian  laughter 
had  reduced  the  table  to  silence,  and  all  waited 
for  Pip's  answer,  which  when  it  finally  came, 
was  to  the  effect  that  Jacky  Chell  had  better 
dry  up.  Cullyngham  continued  to  smile,  ap- 
parently without  effort. 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  195 

"What  is  the  story,  Jacky?"  said  the  Squire 
down  the  table. 

"Cockles  will  tell  it,"  said  Jacky.  "He'll 
make  much  more  of  it  than  I  can." 

The  patrician  humourist,  thus  flatteringly  in- 
troduced into  the  conversation,  readily  took  up 
his  parable. 

"  Well,  it  fell  out  on  this  wise,  ladies  and  gents," 
he  began.  "Old  Cully  here  regards  himself  as  an 
absolutely  top-hole  pill-player,  and  one  day  he 
was  laying  off  to  some  of  us  in  the  Pitt  — " 

"In  the  what?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chell. 

"Undergraduates'  Club,"  interpolated  her  hus- 
band swiftly.  "Go  on,  Cockles." 

"Well,  suddenly  Pip  cuts  in  and  says,  'Look 
here,  you  've  talked  about  your  billiards  for  the 
last  twenty  minutes.  I'll  play  you  a  hundred 
up  now  and  beat  you!'" 

"And  did  he?"  said  several  ladies. 

"  Wait  a  bit,  if  you  please.  None  of  us  knew 
much  about  Pip's  game,  as  he  had  just  joined 
the  club,  but  we  all  went  into  the  billiard  place 
next  door,  and  I  stood  on  a  sofa  and  made  a 
book  —  " 

"What  price?" 

"Three  to  one  on  Cully." 

"Who  mm?"  cried  the  flapper. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  Cockles  severely.  "Don't 
crab  my  story.  Cully  went  off  at  the  start  and 


196        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

rattled  up  a  couple  of  fifteens  almost  before  Pip 
got  his  cue  chalked.  He  reached  his  fifty  just 
as  Pip  got  to  five." 

Sensation. 

"The  odds,"  continued  the  narrator,  smacking 
his  lips,  "then  receded  to  \ten  to  one,  and  no 
takers.  Then  Cully  got  to  seventy-five  just  after 
Pip  had  reached  eighteen  —  was  n't  it,  Pip?" 

No  reply. 

"Right-o!  Never  mind  if  you're  shy.  Any- 
how, old  Cully,  being  naturally  a  bit  above  him- 
self, gave  a  sort  of  chuckle,  and  said, '  What  odds 
now,  Pip,  old  man?'" 

"  Ooh ! "  said  Miss  Dorothy  Chell.  "  How  rash ! 
It  was  quite  enough  to  change  your  luck,  Mr. 
Cully  ngham." 

"Did  you  tap  wood  when  you  said  it,  Mr. 
Cullyngham?"  screamed  the  flapper  down  the 
table. 

Mr.  Cullyngham,  possibly  owing  to  the  effort 
involved  in  keeping  up  a  protracted  smile,  did 
not  reply. 

"Well,"  continued  Cockles,  "Pip  just  turned 
to  him  and  said,  *I  won't  take  any  odds,  but  I'm 
da — blessed  if  I  don't  beat  you  yet/  And  my 
word,  do  you  know  what  he  did?" 

"What?"  came  from  all  corners  of  the  table. 

"He  got  the  balls  together  a  few  minutes 
later,  settled  down  —  and  ran  out!" 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  197 

"  What  f  or?  "  inquired  Miss  Calthrop  languidly. 

"What  for?  He  won.  A  break  of  eighty- 
three,  unfinished.  He  would  n't  go  on.  Said  he 
had  come  there  to  beat  Cully,  not  to  make  a 
show  of  himself.  The  old  ruffian!  He  had  lain 
pretty  low  about  his  powers.  Had  n't  he,  Cully? " 

Cullyngham,  to  his  eternal  credit,  still  smiled. 

"Rather!"  he  said.  "You  had  me  that  time, 
Pip,  old  man." 

Cullyngham's  good  nature  and  tact  having 
smoothed  over  the  rather  jarring  sensation  pro- 
duced by  Cockles's  thoroughly  tactless  reminis- 
cences, conversation  became  general  again.  But 
Pip  wriggled  in  his  seat.  He  hated  publicity  of 
any  kind,  and  he  felt,  moreover,  that  although 
he  was  the  undoubted  hero  of  Cockles's  story, 
the  smiling,  unruffled  man  on  the  other  side  of 
Elsie  was  coming  out  of  the  affair  better  than 
he,  if  only  by  reason  of  the  easy  nonchalance 
with  which  he  had  faced  a  situation  that  had 
been  rather  unfairly  forced  upon  him. 

in 

Next  day  came  the  match  against  the  village. 
It  was  a  serio-comic  fixture,  and  as  such  does  not 
call  for  detailed  description.  The  Squire  was 
early  astir  in  cricket  flannels  and  Harris  tweed 
jacket,  the  latter  garment  being  replaced  at 
high  noon  by  an  M.C.C.  blazer  which  ought  to 


198       THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

have  been  let  out  at  the  seams  twenty  years  ago: 
and  in  good  time  all  the  company  assembled 
on  the  Rustleford  Manor  cricket-ground. 

The  village  won  the  toss,  and  the  Vicar,  accom- 
panied by  the  blacksmith,  opened  the  innings. 
The  attack  was  entrusted  to  Pip  and  the  local 
phenomenon.  The  latter  proved  to  be  a  bowler 
of  appalling  pace  but  uncertain  length;  and  the 
blacksmith,  whose  generous  figure  offered  a  fair 
target  to  any  ball  directed  within  a  yard  of  the 
wicket,  growing  restive  under  the  bombardment, 
forgot  more  than  once  in  his  comments  on  the 
situation  that  a  clergyman  was  standing  less 
than  twenty-two  yards  away. 

The  Vicar,  an  old  Blue,  played  a  skilful  and 
patient  innings,  but  the  blacksmith  did  not  stay 
long.  As  was  natural,  his  chief  stroke  was  a 
rather  laboured  upheaval  of  the  bat  over  his 
head,  followed  by  a  downward  sledge-hammer 
drive  across  the  path  of  the  elusive  ball.  He 
timed  it  correctly  just  once,  and  the  ball,  re- 
bounding from  the  ground  like  a  flash,  sang 
over  the  head  of  the  Squire  at  point  and  pro- 
ceeded to  the  boundary  for  four.  That  was  all. 
Next  time,  in  endeavouring  to  bring  off  a  par- 
ticularly pyrotechnic  late  cut,  the  batsman  was 
bowled.  He  made  doubly  sure  of  his  dismissal  by 
simultaneously  bringing  down  his  bat  upon  the 
top  of  the  off-stump  with  a  force  which  called 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  199 

for  the  united  efforts  of  the  umpire  and  Cockles, 
who  was  keeping  wicket,  to  get  it  out  again. 

The  next  comer  was  the  Vicar's  son,  a  public- 
school  bat  of  the  highest  promise;  and  for  a 
merry  half -hour  pere  et  fits  set  Pip  and  partner 
at  defiance,  and  piled  up  runs  to  the  credit  of 
the  village  green.  It  was  not  until  the  Squire's 
prodigy  had  been  taken  off  and  Gresley  put  on 
that  the  schoolboy,  tempted  by  one  of  the  lat- 
ter's  insidious  "googlies,"  mistimed  a  stroke  and 
put  up  an  easy  one  to  Raven  Innes  at  cover- 
point. 

The  next  batsman  was  the  booking-clerk  from 
the  station.  Humourists  on  the  boundary  cried 
out  that  they  expected  something  "first-class" 
this  journey.  They  were  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment, for  the  batsman  was  bowled  first  ball,  a 
mishap  which  a  facetious  friend  in  the  shade 
of  the  refreshment  tent  attributed  to  natural 
anxiety  not  to  waste  the  return  hah*  of  his 
ticket. 

Eighty-two  for  three  wickets  is  a  good  score 
for  a  village  club;  but  when  the  three  wickets 
grew  to  four,  and  so  on  to  six,  without  any  ap- 
preciable increase  in  the  score,  things  cannot  be 
regarded  as  so  satisfactory.  A  rot  set  in  after 
the  Vicar  was  dismissed,  and  it  was  not  until 
the  last  man  came  in  that  the  hundred  was 
reached.  A  really  creditable  stand  now  ensued, 


200        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

the  village  policeman  laying  on  for  Tusculum 
at  one  end,  while  the  curate  (whom  the  parish 
darkly  suspected  of  ritualistic  tendencies)  laid 
on  for  Rome  at  the  other.  These  twain  brought 
up  the  score  to  a  hundred  and  twenty,  at  which 
point  the  policeman,  in  attempting  a  sort  of 
truncheon-stroke  to  point,  was  deftly  caught  at 
second  slip  by  Cullyngham. 

The  Rustleford  Manor  Eleven,  as  was  usual  in 
this  fixture,  took  the  field  tail  first,  a  proceeding 
which  brought  Pip  to  an  unwontedly  exalted 
position  in  the  batting-list.  He  went  in  first 
wicket,  two  minutes  after  the  commencement  of 
the  innings,  Gresley  having  knocked  off  his  bails 
in  a  misguided  attempt  to  pull  the  first  ball  he 
received.  The  other  end  of  the  pitch  was  occu- 
pied by  the  Squire,  who  had  gone  in  first  in  this 
match  for  twenty  years.  He  liked  plenty  of  time 
to  make  his  runs,  he  explained,  increasing  girth 
precluding  any  great  feats  of  agility  between  the 
wickets. 

The  bowling  was  shared  by  the  Vicar  and  the 
policeman,  the  former  with  lobs,  the  latter  with  a 
delivery  so  frankly  illegal  that  Pip,  gazing  open- 
mouthed  at  the  bowler,  made  no  attempt  to 
play  the  first  ball  he  received,  and  was  nearly 
bowled. 

"  Rather  a  doubtful  delivery  that,  is  n't  it?  "  he 
remarked  to  the  umpire  at  the  end  of  the  over. 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  201 

"No  possible  doubt  about  it  whatever,  sir," 
said  the  grizzled  ground-man  decisively. 
"You  mean  to  say  he  does  n't  throw? " 
"I  mean  to  say  he  does  throw,  sir." 
"  Then  why  don't  you  take  him  off?" 
"Take  him  off,  sir?"     The  veteran  smiled 
indulgently  in  the  direction  of  the  bowler.  "Lor* 
bless  you!    Now,  why,  sir?     'E  ain't  doin'  no 
'arm." 

Pip  could  not  but  agree  with  the  undeniable 
correctness  of  this  pronouncement,  which  was 
shortly  afterwards  endorsed  by  the  captain  of  the 
side,  the  limb  of  the  law  being  relegated  to  a 
distant  beat  hi  the  outfield  and  his  place  taken 
by  another.  The  newcomer,  an  erratic  bowler 
of  great  swiftness,  shot  his  first  ball  into  the 
Squire's  knee-pan,  and  immediately  appealed  for 
leg-before-wicket.  The  village  umpire,  after  an 
obvious  struggle  between  a  desire  to  get  rid  of 
a  dangerous  batsman  and  an  inherent  sense  of 
loyalty  to  the  feudal  system,  finally  decided  in 
favor  of  the  gyrating  Squire,  and  the  game  pro- 
ceeded. Pip  was  bowled  next  over  by  one  of  the 
Vicar's  lobs,  and  retired  amid  applause  with  a 
score  of  two  fours  and  a  six  to  his  credit. 

Outside  the  tent  he  espied  Elsie.  He  sat  down 
beside  her,  and  the  subsequent  proceedings  in- 
terested him  no  more.  However,  the  House 
Eleven,  after  losing  five  wickets  for  thirty  runs, 


202        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

at  last  began  to  put  real  batsmen  into  the  field. 
When  the  match  ended  at  six  o'clock  the  score 
was  a  hundred  and  eighty-five  for  seven  wickets, 
the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  captains,  Mallaby 
and  Oake,  being  not  out  with  fifty-five  and  forty- 
eight  respectively.  By  this  time  Pip  had  asked 
for  and  been  promised  a  lesson  in  golf  next  morn- 
ing, when  there  was  to  be  no  cricket. 

There  was  a  nine-hole  course  round  the  house 
park,  and  here  the  lesson  was  given.  After 
breakfast  the  two  repaired  to  the  tee,  where  Pip, 
whose  whole  weapon  of  offence  consisted  of  an 
ancient  left-handed  cleek  (discovered  in  the  gun- 
room), made  laborious  and  praiseworthy  efforts 
to  imitate  Elsie's  St.  Andrew's  swing,  and  to 
hit  the  little  balls  which  she  placed  on  the  tee 
for  him.  He  had  asked  for  the  lesson  from  purely 
ulterior  motives,  but  in  half  an  hour  he  was  badly 
bitten  with  the  desire  to  excel  at  the  game  itself. 
He  no  longer  regarded  golf  as  a  means  to  an  end, 
but  found  himself  liking  it  for  its  own  sake.  He 
listened  carefully  to  Elsie's  helpful  instructions, 
ground  his  teeth  when  she  heaved  a  resigned 
sigh,  and  glowed  rosily  at  her  rare  expressions 
of  approbation.  Twelve  o'clock  found  him  still 
hewing  his  way  enthusiastically  round  the 
course,  Elsie,  appreciative  of  his  keenness  but 
a  trifle  bored,  nonchalantly  playing  a  ball  to 
keep  him  company. 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  203 

The  afternoon  was  devoted  to  a  river  picnic, 
at  which  Pip,  to  his  huge  disgust,  found  himself 
in  the  wrong  boat  both  going  and  returning. 
Beyond  a  few  minutes  of  what  he  called  "good 
work"  under  a  tree  after  tea,  the  afternoon  was 
a  blank  for  him;  and  it  was  with  mingled  feel- 
ings of  ordinary  jealousy  and  real  concern  for  the 
girl  that  he  found  himself  a  helpless  spectator 
of  Cullyngham's  undoubted  progress  in  Elsie's 
good  graces. 

The  evening  was  given  to  bridge,  and  Pip  — 
one  of  the  few  men  in  Great  Britain  who  com- 
bined the  misfortune  of  being  a  hopelessly  bad 
player  with  the  merit  of  realising  the  fact  — 
played  billiards  with  Raven  Innes  till  bedtime. 
Next  morning  broke  dull  and  cloudy,  and  by 
the  time  that  the  Grandwich  Old  Boys  had 
won  the  toss  and  decided  to  bat,  the  clouds 
broke  and  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents. 

There  is  no  duller  or  more  depressing  spectacle 
in  this  world  than  that  of  two  elevens  waiting 
in  the  pavilion  for  the  rain  to  stop.  Nervous 
men  who  have  to  go  in  next  move  restlessly 
about,  much  harassed  by  the  exuberance  of 
joyous  youths  who  play  small-cricket  against 
the  dressing-room  door.  Weather  prophets  gaze 
pessimistically  at  the  weeping  heavens  and  shake 
their  heads,  while  optimists  point  out  to  each 
other  fragments  of  blue  sky,  invisible  to  the 


204        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

unbiassed  eye,  in  distant  corners  of  the  firma- 
ment. The  pavilion  bore  descends  upon  you, 
and  having  backed  you  into  a  corner  of  the 
veranda,  where  the  rain  can  comfortably  drip 
through  a  leak  in  the  roof  down  your  neck, 
regales  you  with  stories  which  Shem  probably 
told  to  Ham  and  Japheth  under  precisely  similar 
circumstances. 

On  this  occasion  the  cricketers  divided  their 
energies  pretty  equally  between  bridge  and  bear- 
fighting.  Pip,  who  was  in  a  contemplative  mood, 
sat  smoking  patiently  on  the  veranda  railing. 
Presently  Cullyngham,  who  had  just  cut  out  at 
bridge,  came  to  the  doorway  and  looked  round. 
His  eye  fell  on  Pip,  and  he  smiled  in  a  friendly 
manner. 

"Game  of  picquet,  old  man?"  he  inquired. 

"No,  thanks.   Get  another  mug!" 

This  was  rude  of  Pip,  but  Cullyngham  took  it 
angelically. 

"Dear  old  Pip!"  he  cooed.  "I  wish  I  could 
say  caustic  things  with  that  air.  It's  so  effec- 
tive." 

At  this  moment  Gresley  came  up  the  steps. 

"Ah,  here's  my  man!"  exclaimed  Cullyngham. 
"You  are  a  sportsman,  anyhow,  Gresley.  Come 
and  have  a  hand  at  picquet  till  lunch." 

Gresley,  much  flattered  at  this  notice  from  a 
celebrity,  agreed  readily,  and  the  pair  disap- 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  205 

i 

peared  into  the  dressing-room,  where,  since  the 
rain  continued  for  the  greater  part  of  the  day, 
they  were  destined  to  spend  a  considerable  time. 

IV 

That  evening  there  was  an  impromptu  dance. 
It  was  much  the  same  as  other  dances.  There 
was  plenty  of  music  and  champagne  and  laughter; 
and  as  usual  several  people  tried,  and  as  usual 
failed,  to  solve  the  problem  of  how  it  is  that  an 
ethereal-looking  and  fragile  slip  of  a  girl,  wholly 
incapable  of  carrying  a  scuttle  of  coals  upstairs 
or  of  walking  five  miles  without  collapsing,  can 
go  through  an  arduous  night's  exercise,  waltzing 
strong  men  into  a  state  of  coma,  without  turning 
a  hair. 

Pip  did  his  duty  manfully,  though  his  glimpses 
of  Elsie  were  few  and  far  between.  That  young 
lady,  whether  by  accident  or  design,  had  filled 
her  card  rather  fully  before  Pip  reached  her 
side.  Consequently  it  was  something  like  mid- 
night when  the  piano  and  violin  struck  up  the 
waltz  that  she  had  promised  him,  and  Pip,  hast- 
ily returning  the  eldest  Miss  Calthrop  to  her 
base  of  operations,  braced  himself  for  the  moment 
of  the  evening. 

He  waited  for  some  time  at  the  door  of  the 
dancing-room  scanning  the  returning  couples, 
but  Elsie  did  not  come;  and  Pip,  who  was  pre- 


206       THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

eminently  a  man  of  action,  set  out  to  look  for 
her. 

He  came  upon  the  truant  rather  suddenly, 
round  a  screen  at  the  end  of  a  passage.  She  was 
sitting  on  a  settee  with  Cullyngham,  who,  with 
his  head  close  to  hers,  was  talking  softly  and 
rather  too  earnestly  Pip  thought.  On  seeing 
Pip,  Cullyngham  began  to  smile  at  once,  but 
Elsie  looked  a  little  confused. 

"My  dance,  I  think,"  said  Pip  gruffly. 

Cullyngham  rose  to  his  feet. 

"A  thousand  apologies,  old  boy,"  he  said 
easily.  "I  had  no  idea  the  music  had  started 
again.  So  sorry!  I  surrender  Miss  Innes  forth- 
with. Au  revoir,  partner,  and  thank  you." 

He  swung  gracefully  down  the  passage  and 
was  gone. 

Elsie  felt  a  little  uncomfortable.  The  woman 
never  yet  lived  who  did  not  enjoy  playing  two 
fish  simultaneously,  and  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances Elsie  would  have  handled  her  line  with 
all  the  pleasure  and  finesse  of  an  expert.  But 
somehow  Pip  was  different.  He  was  not  the  sort 
of  person  who  shared  a  hook  gracefully.  He 
was  perfectly  capable  of  disregarding  the  rules 
of  the  game  and  making  a  fuss  and  breaking  the 
line,  unless  treated  with  special  and  separate 
consideration. 

She  rose  lightly. 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  207 

"So  sony,  Pip/'  she  said,  taking  his  arm 
almost  caressingly.  "I  didn't  mean  to  keep 
you  waiting.  Shall  we  go  and  dance?" 

"No,"  said  Pip.  "Sit  down  a  minute,  please." 

Elsie  obeyed. 

"It's  only  this,"  said  Pip  bluntly.  "I  can't 
help  it  if  I  offend  you.  Have  as  little  to  do  with 
that  chap  as  you  can." 

A  brief  silence,  and  these  two  young  people 
surveyed  each  other.  There  was  no  flinching 
on  either  side.  Then  Elsie's  eyes  blazed. 

"How  paltry!  How  mean!"  she  said  hotly. 
"Fancy  trying  to  do  it  that  way!" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'it'?"  said  Pip. 

Elsie  bit  her  lip.   She  had  given  herself  away. 

"You  mean,"  went  on  Pip,  "that  I  say  this 
because  I  am  jealous." 

That  was  exactly  what  Elsie  had  meant,  and 
she  knew  in  her  heart  now  that  she  had  been 
wrong:  Pip  was  not  that  sort.  Still,  she  was 
young  and  independent.  Pip  was  young  and 
tactless.  An  older  and  more  experienced  girl 
would  have  seen  that  Pip's  warning  was  well 
worth  listening  to.  An  older  and  more  experi- 
enced man  would  have  delivered  it  in  a  different 
way.  Neither  of  them  being  possessed  of  these 
advantages,  the  net  result  of  Pip's  impromptu 
effort  was  to  invest  Cullyngham  with  a  halo  of 
romantic  mystery  in  the  eyes  of  Elsie,  who,  after 


208       THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

all,  was  only  nineteen,  and  a  daughter  of  Eve  at 
that.  Here  were  the  elements  of  a  pretty  quarrel. 

Five  minutes  later,  after  a  hot  altercation, 
Elsie  sailed  into  the  ballroom  alone,  with  her 
small  and  admirably  formed  nose  slightly  in  the 
air,  leaving  Pip,  tardily  recalling  Raven's  advice, 
to  curse  his  tactless  tongue  on  the  settee  behind 
the  screen. 

To  him  entered  young  Gresley.  He  dropped 
listlessly  on  to  the  settee. 

"Pip,"  he  said,  "I'm  in  a  devil  of  a  hole." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"I'm  dipped  — badly." 

"Oh  — money?" 

"Yes." 

Pip's  eyes  suddenly  gleamed. 

"Cullyngham?" 

Gresley  nodded. 

Pip  rose  and  pulled  the  screen  completely  across 
the  passage. 

"They'll  think  we're  a  spooning  couple,"  he 
said.  "Goon." 

Gresley  told  his  story.  Flattered  by  Cullyng- 
ham's  invitation,  he  had  agreed  to  play  picquet 
—  a  game  with  which  he  enjoyed  only  what 
may  be  called  a  domestic  acquaintance — in  the 
pavilion  before  lunch. 

"I  suppose  we  will  play  the  usual  club  points?'* 
Cullyngham  had  said. 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  209 

"And  like  a  blamed  fool,"  continued  Gresley, 
"I  did  n't  like  to  let  on  that  I  did  n't  know  what 
the  usual  club  points  were,  but  just  nodded.  I 
lost  all  the  time,  and  when  he  added  up  at  one 
o'clock  I  owed  him  five  hundred  points.  He  said 
I  must  have  my  revenge  in  the  afternoon  if  it 
went  on  raining.  Well,  as  you  know,  it  did  go  on 
raining,  and  by  the  end  of  the  day  I  was  fifteen 
hundred  points  down.  Then  he  told  me,  what  I 
had  n't  had  the  pluck  to  ask  him,  what  we  were 
playing  for.  He  said  that  the  ordinary  club 
points  were  a  fiver  a  hundred,  and  that  I  owed 
him  seventy-five  pounds." 

* '  The  d d  swine ! ' '  said  Pip  through  his  teeth . 

"Are  they  the  ordinary  club  points,  Pip?" 
said  Gresley  anxiously. 

"Ordinary  club  grandmother!  It's  a  swindle. 
He  probably  cheated  in  the  actual  play,  too. 
What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  shall  pay." 

"Quite  right,"  said  Pip  approvingly.  "Pay 
first,  and  then  we  can  go  for  him  without  preju- 
dice. Have  you  got  the  money?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head  dismally.  "About  ten 
pounds,"  he  said. 

"I  could  raise  a  couple  of  fivers,  perhaps,"  said 
Pip.  "But  in  any  case  your  best  plan  is  to  go 
straight  and  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  your 
Governor." 


210       THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"Pip,  I  couldn't!  He's  fearfully  simple  and 
straight  in  these  things.  It  would  break  him 
up." 

"I  know  him  well  enough,"  said  Pip,  "to  be 
quite  certain  that  you  ought  to  tell  him.  He 
can't  eat  you,  and  he'll  respect  your  pluck  in 
being  frank  about  it.  If  he  finds  out  by  accident, 
though—" 

"You  are  right,  Pip.  I '11  do  it." 

"Good!  If  you'll  do  that,  I'll  promise  you 
something  in  return.  I'll  give  Master  Cully  ng- 
ham  such  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  his  own  previous 
history  that  he'll  leave  the  place  to-morrow 
morning  and  never  darken  its  doors,  or  any  other 
doors  I  care  to  specify,  again.  Now,  you  write 
straight  off  to  your  Governor;  or,  better  still, 
make  an  excuse  and  run  up  to  town  and  see  him 
to-morrow,  and  leave  me  to  tackle  friend  Cul- 
lyngham.  I  think  I  shall  enjoy  my  interview 
more  than  you  will." 

Mr.  Rupert  Cullyngham  had  divested  himself 
of  his  dress-coat,  and  was  engaged  in  unfastening 
a  neatly  tied  white  tie,  when  his  bedroom  door 
opened  and  Pip  came  in. 

"Cullyngham,"  he  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone,  "you  must  leave  this  house  to-morrow 
morning." 

Cullyngham  turned  and  surveyed  his  visitor 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  211 

for  a  moment  with  some  amusement.  Then  he 
said, — 

"Certainly!  No  idea  you  had  bought  the 
place.  Can  I  have  a  trap,  or  must  I  walk?" 

Pip  did  not  rise  to  the  level  of  this  airy  badi- 
nage. On  the  contrary,  he  was  brusque  and 
rude. 

"You  will  get  your  cheque  all  right,"  he  con- 
tinued. "It  will  reach  you  on  Sunday  morning, 
so  there's  no  need  to  hang  on  here  for  it." 

"May  I  inquire  —  what  cheque?" 

"The  money  young  Gresley  owes  you." 

Cullyngham  whistled  softly. 

"So  it's  to  that  young  fool  that  I  owe  the 
honour  of  this  visit,"  he  said.  "Look  here,  old 
chap—" 

Pip  broke  in. 

"Thanks,  I  can  do  without  that.  Let  us  have 
no  rotten  pretence  on  the  subject.  To  be  quite 
frank,  I  was  rather  surprised  to  find  you  in  this 
house  at  all  —  so  was  Raven  Innes.  However, 
we  decided  not  to  make  any  remark  — " 

"That  was  decent  of  you!" 

Pip  continued,  meditatively  — 

"Chell  had  probably  asked  you  here  on  your 
cricket  reputation.  However,  as  I  find  you  can't 
refrain  from  behaving  like  the  cad  you  are,  even 
when  asked  down  to  a  house  like  this,  I  have 
decided  to  take  things  in  hand  myself.  You  will 


212        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

make  an  excuse  to  the  Chells  in  the  morning,  and 
go  straight  away  back  — " 

Cullyngham,  who  had  been  restraining  himself 
with  difficulty,  turned  suddenly  round  and  ad- 
vanced upon  him. 

"Get  out!"  he  said,  his  eyes  blazing. 

Pip,  who  was  lounging  on  the  arm  of  a  chair, 
never  stirred. 

"If  you  will  sit  down  for  five  minutes,"  he 
observed  steadily,  "I'll  give  you  a  few  reasons 
for  my  assurance  in  this  matter.  The  fact  is, 
Cullyngham,  you  are  n't  in  a  position  to  retaliate. 
To-day,  for  instance,  you  were  wearing  the  col- 
ours of  your  old  school  club.  You  are  not  a  mem- 
ber. They  don't  elect  people  who  have  been  — 
sacked.  Also,  I  came  across  a  friend  of  yours  not 
long  ago.  She  wanted  your  address,  or  rather  her 
daughter  did.  Her  name  was  — " 

Cullyngham,  whose  face  had  been  gradually 
changing  from  a  lowering  red  to  a  delicate  green, 
suddenly  noticed  that  the  door  was  standing 
ajar.  He  hurried  across  the  room,  shut  it,  and 
turned  the  key. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  door  opened  again,  and 
Pip  stepped  out  into  the  dark  passage.  An  item 
in  his  host's  valedictory  remarks  took  him  back 
into  the  room  again,  and  he  stood  holding  the 
door-handle  as  he  spoke. 

"Cullyngham,  you  certainly  owe  me  one  for 


A  CRICKET  WE!EK          213 

this,  so  you  can  blackguard  me  to  your  heart's 
content.  Also,  you  may  interpret  my  motives 
as  you  like;  but  —  we  will  leave  ladies'  names 
out  of  this  question,  please.  Remember  that!" 


At  breakfast  next  morning,  amid  much  mas- 
culine concern  and  feminine  lamentation,  Cul- 
lyngham  announced  that  unexpected  and  urgent 
family  business  called  him  away  to  town. 

The  Squire  expostulated. 

"My  dear  fellow,  this  is  simply  outrageous! 
What  are  we  to  do?  The  Gentlemen  have 
whipped  up  the  hottest  side  I  have  ever  seen 
on  this  ground,  and  first  of  all  young  Gresley 
slips  off  before  breakfast,  and  now  you  want  to 
go.  We  shall  get  simply  trampled  on ! " 

Cullyngham,  his  smile  once  again  in  full  work- 
ing order,  confessed  himself  utterly  desolated ;  but 
the  business  was  of  a  pressing,  and,  he  hinted, 
rather  painful,  nature,  and  go  he  must. 

Accordingly  a  trap  was  ordered  round  for  the 
twelve  o'clock  train,  and  the  depleted  Eleven, 
together  with  the  greater  part  of  the  house-party, 
strolled  down  to  the  ground  to  face  the  redoubt- 
able Gentlemen  of  the  County. 

Pip  had  been  promised  an  hour's  golf  with 
Elsie  after  breakfast.  He  was  at  the  tee  at  the 
appointed  hour  of  ten,  but  was  not  in  the  least 


214        THE   MAKING  OF  A   MAN 

surprised  when  his  teacher  failed  to  put  in  an 
appearance.  After  smoking  patiently  upon  the 
sand-box  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  uncon- 
scious target  of  a  good  many  curious  eyes  on  the 
terrace  above,  he  sadly  knocked  the  ashes  out  of 
his  pipe  and  returned  to  the  house,  to  prepare 
himself  for  the  labours  of  the  day. 

This  was  to  be  no  picnic  match.  The  County 
Club  had  no  other  fixture  that  day,  so  could  put 
its  full  amateur  strength  into  the  field.  With 
Gresley  and  Cullyngham  playing  the  sides  would 
have  been  about  equally  balanced,  but  now  it  was 
odds  on  the  visitors. 

However,  the  men  of  Rustleford,  fortifying 
themselves  with  the  comforting  reflection  that 
cricket,  like  most  other  departments  of  life,  is 
a  game  of  surprises,  enrolled  two  substitutes  for 
their  absent  warriors,  and  took  the  field  with  a 
stout  heart,  having  lost  the  toss  as  a  preliminary. 

There  had  been  more  rain  during  the  night, 
and  the  wicket,  though  sodden,  was  easy.  The 
Gentlemen  opened  nicely,  scoring  forty-five  runs 
by  pretty  cricket  before  a  wicket  fell.  After  that 
two  more  wickets  fell  rather  easily,  and  then 
came  another  stand,  during  which  the  score  rose 
from  forty-five  to  eighty,  at  which  point  the  more 
passive  of  the  two  resisters  was  given  out  leg- 
before-wicket.  Then  came  a  debacle,  absolute 
and  complete,  but  not  altogether  inexplicable. 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  215 

The  clouds  were  dispersing  rapidly,  and,  once  free 
of  their  nebulous  embraces,  the  July  sun  began  to 
beat  down  fiercely,  "queering  the  patch"  in  the 
most  literal  sense  of  the  word,  and  thus  enabling 
Pip  and  the  village  prodigy  to  dismiss  an  undeni- 
ably strong  batting  side  for  a  hundred  and  eight. 
Loud  were  the  congratulations  of  the  specta- 
tors. The  ladies  especially  were  jubilant,  the 
flapper  going  so  far  as  to  ask  her  two  admirers 
for  a  quotation  of  odds  —  in  the  current  coin  of 
flapperdom,  chocolates  —  against  Rustleford's 
chances  of  an  innings  victory.  But  the  Squire 
looked  up  at  the  blazing  sun  and  down  at  the 
rapidly  drying  pitch,  and  glanced  inquiringly  at 


Pip  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
grunted,  — 

"Lucky  if  we  get  half  the  runs." 

As  it  turned  out,  this  was  an  overestimate. 
The  Rustleford  Manor  Eleven  went  in  to  bat  at 
one  o'clock  precisely,  and  were  all  dismissed  in 
the  space  of  forty-five  minutes  for  forty-nine 
runs.  The  pitch  was  almost  unplayable;  each 
bowler  found  a  "spot";  and  it  was  only  some 
berserk  slogging  by  Pip,  who  went  in  last  and 
refused  to  allow  any  ball  to  alight  on  the  treach- 
erous turf  at  all,  that  this  insignificant  total  was 
not  halved. 

The  Elevens  lunched  together  in  the  pavilion, 


216        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

but  the  rest  of  the  party  returned  to  the  house. 
Here  Elsie,  who  had  spent  a  not  altogether  com- 
fortable night  and  morning,  was  somewhat  sur- 
prised to  find  herself  seated  next  to  Cullyngham. 

"I  thought  you  had  gone,"  she  said. 

"Unfortunately,"  he  replied,  "I  came  down 
at  twelve  to  drive  to  the  station,  to  find  that  I 
had  misunderstood  Mrs.  Chell  and  kept  the  trap 
too  late  to  have  any  chance  of  catching  the 
train." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Elsie.  "You'll  be  able  to 
come  and  see  the  match  now.  It  is  going  to  be 
tremendously  exciting." 

Cullyngham  lowered  his  head  in  her  direction, 
and  said, — 

"Will  you  let  me  have  that  round  of  golf  this 
afternoon  —  the  one  I  should  have  had  next 
Monday?" 

Elsie  surveyed  him  doubtfully.  Under  ordi- 
nary circumstances  she  would  have  preferred  to 
see  the  cricket,  but  she  was  not  insensible  to 
Cullyngham's  charms,  and  she  liked  the  flatter- 
ing way  in  which  he  had  couched  his  request. 

"But  the  cricket?"  she  said.  "Surely  you  —  " 

"Some  things  are  worth  many  cricket- 
matches,"  said  Cullyngham  sententiously. 

Elsie  gasped  a  little,  and  Cullyngham  con- 
tinued, — 

"You  will  come?    Leave  the  cricketers  to 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  217 

themselves  this  time.  They'll  get  too  conceited 
with  so  much  attention." 

Now,  whether  Cullyngham  meant  this  remark 
to  have  a  particular  significance,  or  to  be  merely 
of  general  application,  one  cannot  say,  but  its 
effect  was  to  suggest  to  Elsie  a  most  appropriate 
punishment  for  Pip.  Instead  of  sitting  on  the 
pavilion  lawn  applauding  his  performance,  she 
would  stay  at  home  and  play  golf  with  his  rival. 
Little  boys  must  be  taught  not  to  be  jealous. 

"Very  well,"  she  said. 

Cullyngham  called  for  more  whiskey-and-soda. 

The  Gentlemen  of  the  County  began  their 
second  innings  after  lunch.  News  of  the  exciting 
state  of  the  game  had  spread  abroad,  and  the 
Manor  ground  was  rapidly  being  encircled  by  a 
ring  of  carriages  and  motors,  tenanted  by  masses 
of  white  fluff,  which  at  intervals  disintegrated 
itself  into  its  component  elements  for  purposes  of 
promenade,  dress-reviewing,  and  refreshment. 

It  was  quite  plain  that  runs  would  be  hard  to 
get  on  that  wicket.  There  was  a  crust  of  dried 
mud  on  the  top  and  a  quagmire  below.  The  sun 
still  beat  down  strongly,  the  birds  were  celebrat- 
ing the  termination  of  twenty-four  hours'  rain 
in  every  tree,  and  everybody  was  alert  and  ex- 
cited at  the  prospect  of  an  open  game  and  a  close 
finish. 

Their  expectations  were  fully  realised.   The 


218        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

Gentlemen  of  the  County,  either  through  anxiety 
to  eclipse  their  rivals'  sensational  breakdown,  or 
through  excess  of  confidence,  or  simply  because 
they  could  not  help  it,  scored  exactly  thirty-five 
runs.  Pip  took  eight  wickets  for  sixteen.  He 
was  always  a  bowler  of  moods,  and  his  work  in 
the  morning,  though  good  enough,  had  not  been 
particularly  brilliant.  A  man  can  no  more  take 
a  wicket  than  he  can  take  a  city  unless  he  gives 
his  mind  to  it,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  up 
to  the  luncheon  interval  Pip  had  been  wool- 
gathering. His  interview  with  Cullyngham,  his 
rather  brief  night's  rest,  and  his  tiff  with  Elsie 
had  kept  his  wits  wandering.  Now,  braced  by 
the  knowledge  that  Cullyngham  was  speeding  on 
his  way  south,  that  Elsie  was  sitting  safely  on  the 
pavilion  lawn,  and  that  —  most  blessed  of  rest 
cures !  —  there  was  work,  hard  work,  before  him, 
Pip  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  set  his  field,  and  bowled. 
He  made  no  fuss  about  it;  he  merely  rose  to  the 
top  of  his  form  and  stayed  there.  The  wickets 
fell  like  ninepins,  the  crowd  shouted  itself  hoarse, 
and  when  it  was  all  over,  Pip,  walking  soberly  in 
with  the  rest,  found  himself  punched,  slapped, 
and  otherwise  embraced  by  various  frantic  peo- 
ple in  the  pavilion. 

Among  the  forest  of  hands,  each  containing  a 
sizzling  tumbler,  that  were  extended  towards 
him,  Pip  observed  one  containing  a  telegram. 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  219 

Mechanically  he  took  the  orange-coloured  en- 
velope with  one  hand  and  a  tall  tumbler  with 
the  other,  and,  thrusting  the  former  safe  out  of 
harm's  way  in  his  pocket,  devoted  his  attention 
to  the  latter. 

This  done,  he  put  on  his  blazer,  lit  his  pipe, 
and  took  up  his  favourite  position  on  the  railing 
of  the  pavilion  veranda,  what  time  the  two  chief 
batsmen  of  his  side  buckled  on  their  pads.  There 
were  ninety-five  runs  to  make,  and  they  had  to 
be  made  on  a  wicket  in  the  last  stages  of  decom- 
position. The  two  heroes,  nervous  but  resolute, 
took  the  field  for  the  last  time,  and,  with  nearly 
three  hours  before  them,  set  to  work,  slowly  and 
cautiously,  to  make  the  runs. 

But  Pip  was  not  watching  the  cricket.  His 
eye  was  travelling  steadily  round  the  pavilion 
lawn,  dodging  pink  frocks  and  skipping  over 
blue  frocks  in  its  search  for  the  white  pique 
costume  that  Elsie  had  worn  that  morning.  It 
was  not  there. 

Mindful  that  the  female  sex,  not  content  with 
having  once  successfully  surmounted  that  most 
monumental  nuisance  of  civilisation,  the  daily 
toilet,  is  addicted  to  inexplicable  and  apparently 
enjoyable  repetitions  of  the  same,  Pip  tried 
again,  and  scrutinised  the  pink  frocks  and  the 
blue  frocks.  Elsie  was  not  in  any  of  them.  Pip 
felt  vaguely  uneasy.  Of  course  Cullyngham  was 


220        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

almost  back  in  town  by  this  time.  Still  —  The 
two  batsmen  were  making  a  respectable  show.  Pip 
was  to  go  in  last.  The  greatest  possible  series  of 
catastrophes  could  not  bring  his  services  into  re- 
quisition for  another  twenty  minutes  at  any  rate. 
He  would  run  up  to  the  house  and  see.  See  what? 
He  did  not  know,  but  he  would  go  and  see  it. 

He  vaulted  over  a  fence,  slipped  through  a 
plantation,  and  tramped  under  the  hot  after- 
noon sun  across  the  meadow  which  separated  the 
Manor  from  the  cricket-ground.  Suddenly,  in 
his  pocket,  his  hand  encountered  the  telegram 
that  had  been  handed  to  him  after  the  innings: 
it  had  gone  right  out  of  his  memory. 

"Wonder  if  it's  an  abusive  message  from 
Cully,"  he  said  to  himself. 

No,  it  was  from  Pipette,  and  Pip  sat  down 
on  a  hurdle  and  steadied  himself  after  reading 
it.  Presently,  after  a  stunned  interval,  he  con- 
tinued mechanically  on  his  way. 

"Let  me  see,"  he  found  himself  saying,  —  "I 
had  better  pack  up  my  things,  get  a  trap  at  the 
stables,  and  catch  the  five-thirty  train.  I'll 
leave  a  note  for  the  Chells,  and  then  I  shan't 
have  to  face  the  whole  crowd  again.  If  there's 
no  trap  to  be  had  I'll  leave  my  bag  and  leg  it. 
Only  a  mile  or  so,  —  I  wish  it  was  more,  —  got 
an  hour  and  a  half  to  fill  in." 

By  this  time  he  had  reached  the  house.   The 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  221 

place  was  deserted,  for  the  butler  and,  indeed, 
most  of  the  establishment  were  down  at  the 
cricket-ground.  Pip  went  rather  heavily  up- 
stairs and  packed  his  portmanteau,  which  he 
presently  brought  down  to  the  hall  door.  After 
that  he  went  to  the  library  and  wrote  a  brief  letter. 

"Now  to  find  some  one  to  leave  this  with," 
he  said  to  himself.  "The  maids  can't  all  be  out. 
After  that  I'll  go  to  the  stables.  Hallo!  That 
sounded  like  a  voice.  There  it  is  again!  A  sort 
of  shriek!  It  comes  from  the  conservatory. 
My  God!  it's— " 

He  hurried  into  the  drawing-room  and  darted 
across  to  the  large  French  windows  that  opened 
into  the  conservatory.  Then,  stepping  out  and 
passing  round  a  great  orange  tree  in  a  green 
tub,  he  came  suddenly  on  a  sight  that  caused 
something  inside  him  to  gather  into  a  sickening 
knot  and  sink  down,  down,  down,  dragging  his 
very  heart  with  it. 

Elsie  and  Cullyngham,  the  latter  with  his 
back  to  Pip,  were  standing  face  to  face  in  the 
middle  of  the  conservatory.  They  were  pressed 
close  together,  and  both  Elsie's  arms  were  round 
Cullyngham's  neck. 

VI 

Somehow  the  golf-match  was  not  quite  as 
amusing  as  Elsie  had  expected.  Cullyngham  was 


222        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

all  deference  and  vivacity,  and  played  like  the 
stylist  he  was.  Still,  Elsie  could  not  help  won- 
dering how  the  cricket-match  was  getting  on; 
and  when  at  half-past  three  the  round  of  nine 
holes  was  completed,  she  announced  her  intention 
of  going  down  to  the  ground  to  see  the  finish. 

"What,  and  desert  me?"  inquired  her  oppo- 
nent pathetically. 

"You  can  come  too,  if  you  like." 

"Hardly  worth  while,  I'm  afraid.  I  have  to 
pack  my  bag  and  get  some  tea,  and  then  I  shall 
be  due  at  the  station." 

"I  thought  your  bag  was  packed  already. 
You  were  to  have  gone  by  the  twelve  train,  you 
know,"  said  Elsie  rather  doubtfully. 

"Yes,"  said  Cullyngham  easily,  "but  you  for- 
got I  had  to  unpack  again  to  get  out  my  golfing 
shoes.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  continued 
rapidly.  "They  are  going  to  give  me  tea  in  the 
conservatory  before  I  go:  won't  you  stay  and 
pour  it  out  for  me?  Just  five  minutes  —  please!" 

Elsie  felt  that  she  could  hardly  in  decency 
refuse,  and  accompanied  Cullyngham  to  the 
house  and  thence  to  the  conservatory,  where 
the  maid  who  brought  the  tea  informed  them 
of  the  glorious  downfall  of  the  County  Eleven 
and  of  Pip's  share  therein. 

This  decided  Elsie.  She  had  no  desire  to 
appear  in  any  scene  where  Pip  was  the  central 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  223 

figure,  so  she  accepted  Cullyngham's  pressing 
invitation  to  share  his  tea,  and,  sinking  into  a 
large  armchair,  prepared  to  spend  an  idle  half- 
hour  until  popular  enthusiasm  on  the  cricket- 
ground  should  have  abated.  Pip  was  uncon- 
sciously proving  the  profound  wisdom  of  the 
maxim  which  warns  us  to  beware  when  all  men 
speak  well  of  us.  He  was  paying  the  penalty 
of  success.  If  he  had  been  bowled  first  ball,  or 
had  missed  three  easy  catches,  Elsie,  being  a 
woman,  would  probably  have  melted  and  been 
kind  to  him.  But  to  unbend  to  him  now  would 
savour  of  opportunism,  hero-worship,  and  other 
disagreeable  things.  Elsie  set  her  small  white 
teeth,  frowned  at  an  orange  tree  in  a  green  tub, 
and  prepared  for  a  tete-a-tete.  The  house  seemed 
deserted. 

"Penny  for  your  thoughts!"  said  Cullyngham. 

Elsie  smiled  composedly. 

"If  they  were  only  worth  that  I  would  make 
you  a  present  of  them,"  she  said.  "If  they  were 
worth  more  they  would  not  be  for  sale." 

"Are  they  worth  more?" 

"I  don't  know,  really.  Anyhow,  they  are  not 
on  the  market."  She  drank  some  tea  with  a 
prim  air,  uncomfortably  conscious  that  she  was 
blushing. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  Cullyngham 
spoke  again. 


224        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"I  hope  I'm  not  boring  you,"  he  said,  with 
a  smile  which  took  for  granted  the  impossibility 
of  the  idea. 

"Oh,  dear,  no.  I'm  seldom  bored  at  meals.'* 
Elsie  took  a  bite  out  of  a  bun. 

"Very  well.  Till  you  have  finished  tea  I  will 
keep  quiet;  after  that  I  will  endeavour  to  amuse 
you." 

The  meal  continued  solemnly.  Once  or  twice 
Elsie  directed  a  furtive  glance  at  the  man  beside 
her,  and  detected  him  eyeing  her  in  a  manner 
which  made  her  feel  hot  and  cold  by  turns.  It 
was  not  that  he  was  rude  or  objectionable,  but 
Elsie  suddenly  felt  conscious  that  Pip's  open 
stare  of  honest  admiration  was  infinitely  less 
embarrassing  than  this. 

Cullyngham,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  in  a 
dangerous  mood.  His  was  not  a  pride  that  took 
a  fall  easily,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  been  com- 
pelled to  submit  to  Pip's  unconditional  ultima- 
tum was  goading  him  to  madness.  No  man  is  al- 
together bad,  but  we  are  all  possessed  of  our  own 
particular  devils,  and  Cullyngham  accommo- 
dated more  than  his  fair  share  of  them.  He  had 
never  denied  himself  the  gratification  of  any 
passion,  however  unworthy,  and  at  that  moment 
his  one  consuming  desire  was  to  retaliate  upon 
the  man  who  had  humiliated  him.  He  looked 
around  the  empty  conservatory,  and  then  again 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  225 

at  the  girl  in  the  basket-chair  beside  him.  He 
could  punish  Pip  now  in  a  most  exquisite  man- 
ner. 

Elsie  caught  the  glance,  and  for  a  moment 
was  suddenly  conscious  of  an  emotion  hitherto 
unknown  to  her  —  acute  physical  fear.  But 
Cullyngham  said  lightly  — 

"Enjoyed  your  tea?" 

"Yes,  thanks,"  she  replied  rather  tremulously, 
putting  down  her  cup. 

"Then  may  I  smoke?" 

"Certainly.   But  I  am  going  now." 

"Right,  if  you  must.  I'll  just  light  my  cigar- 
ette and  see  you  to  the  end  of  the  drive." 

Cullyngham  produced  a  box  of  matches,  and, 
with  the  paternal  air  of  one  endeavouring  to 
amuse  a  child,  performed  various  tricks  with 
them.  Then  he  lit  a  cigarette,  and  showed  Elsie 
how,  by  doubling  up  your  tongue,  it  is  possible 
to  grip  the  cigarette  in  the  fold  and  draw  it  into 
your  mouth,  reproducing  it,  still  lighted  and 
glowing,  a  minute  later. 

"Quite  a  little  exhibition!"  said  Elsie,  at  her 
ease  again.  "You  ought  to  set  up  as  a  conjurer. 
Now  I  must  be  off." 

"There  is  one  other  little  trick  with  a  match 
that  might  amuse  you,"  said  Cullyngham.  "It 
was  taught  me  by  a  girl  I  know.  She  made  me 
go  down  on  my  hands  and  knees  — " 


226        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"I  refuse  to  go  down  on  my  knees  for  any- 
body," said  Elsie,  with  spirit. 

"Never  mind.  I  will  do  that  part.  I  go  on 
my  hands  and  knees  on  the  floor,  like  this,  with 
a  match  lying  on  my  back  between  my  shoulder- 
blades.  Then  the  other  person  —  you  —  has  his 
hands  tied  together  with  a  handkerchief,  and 
tries  to  brush  the  match  off  the  other  person's 
back.  It's  extraordinary  how  difficult  it  is  to 
do  it  with  one's  hands  tied  and  the  other  person 
bobbing  and  dodging  to  get  away  from  you." 

"  It  sounds  absolutely  idiotic,"  said  Elsie  coldly. 

"It  isn't,  though.  Of  course  it  would  be 
idiotic  for  you  and  me  to  play  it  now  by  our- 
selves; but  I'll  just  show  you  the  trick  of  it,  and 
you  will  be  able  to  have  some  sport  with  them 
in  the  billiard-room  to-night.  Shall  I  show  you?" 

Elsie  agreed,  without  enthusiasm.  It  seemed 
churlish  to  refuse  such  a  trifling  request  to  a 
man  who  was  making  laborious  efforts  to  amuse 
her;  but,  for  all  that,  this  tete-a-tete  had  lasted 
long  enough.  However,  she  would  be  on  the 
cricket-ground  in  a  few  minutes. 

Her  doubts  were  in  a  measure  revived  when 
Cullyngham  tied  her  two  wrists  together  with 
a  silk  handkerchief.  He  performed  the  operation 
very  quickly,  and  then  dropped  on  to  his  hands 
and  knees  on  the  floor  and  carefully  balanced  a 
match  on  the  broad  of  his  back. 


A   CRICKET   WEEK  227 

"Now,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  her,  "just  try 
to  knock  that  match  off  my  back.  Of  course  I 
shall  dodge  all  I  can.  I  bet  you  won't  be  able  to 
do  it." 

Elsie,  feeling  uncommonly  foolish,  made  one  or 
two  perfunctory  dabs  at  the  match  with  her  bound 
hands.  Once  she  nearly  succeeded,  but  Cullyng- 
ham  backed  away  just  in  time.  Piqued  by  his 
derisive  little  laugh,  she  took  a  quick  step  for- 
ward, and  leaning  over  him,  was  on  the  point 
of  brushing  the  match  on  to  the  floor,  when  sud- 
denly Cullyngham  slewed  round  in  her  direc- 
tion, and,  thrusting  his  head  into  the  enclosure 
of  her  arms,  scrambled  to  his  feet.  Next  moment 
Elsie,  dazed,  numbed,  terrified,  found  herself 
on  tiptoe,  hanging  round  a  man's  neck,  while  the 
man's  arms  were  round  her  and  his  hateful  smil- 
ing face  was  drawing  nearer,  nearer,  nearer  to 
her  own. 

Never  was  a  girl  in  more  deadly  peril.  Elsie 
uttered  a  choking  scream. 

"It's  no  good,  little  girl,"  said  Cullyngham. 
"  I  've  got  you  fast,  and  there 's  not  a  soul  in  the 
house.  A  kiss,  please!"  He  spoke  thickly:  the 
man  was  dead  within  him. 

Elsie,  inert  and  drooping,  shrank  back  as  far 
as  her  manacled  wrists  would  allow  her,  and 
struggled  frantically  to  free  herself.  But  Cul- 
lyngham's  arms  brought  her  towards  him  again. 


228        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

And  then,  paralysed  with  terror,  with  eyes  wide 
open,  she  found  herself  staring  right  over  Cul- 
lyngham's  shoulder  at  —  Pip !  —  Pip,  sprung  from 
the  earth,  and  standing  only  five  yards  away. 

"Pip!"  she  moaned;  "Pip,  save  me!" 

Almost  simultaneously  Cullyngham  became 
conscious  of  something  that  gripped  him  by  the 
nape  of  his  neck,  just  below  Elsie's  fettered 
wrists  —  something  that  felt  like  a  steel  vice. 
Tighter  and  tighter  grew  the  grip.  The  veins 
began  to  stand  out  on  Cullyngham's  forehead, 
and  he  gurgled  for  breath.  Down  he  went,  till  his 
head  was  once  more  on  a  level  with  the  floor  and 
his  aristocratic  nose  was  rubbed  into  the  matting. 
In  a  moment  the  girl  had  slipped  her  wrists  over 
his  head  and  stood  free  — pale,  shaken,  but  free! 

"Run  into  the  house,"  said  Pip.  "I  will  come 
in  a  minute." 

Elsie  tottered  through  the  French  window  and 
disappeared,  with  her  hands  still  bound  before 
her,  and  the  two  men  were  left  alone. 

Finding  himself  in  a  favourable  geographical 
position,  Pip  kicked  Cullyngham  till  his  toes 
ached  inside  his  boots.  Then  he  thrust  him 
away  on  to  the  floor.  Cullyngham,  free  at  last 
and  white  with  passion,  was  up  in  a  moment 
and  rushed  at  Pip.  He  was  met  by  a  crashing 
blow  in  the  face  and  went  down  again. 

If  Pip  had  been  himself  he  would  have  desisted 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  229 

there  and  then,  for  he  had  his  enemy  heavily 
punished  already.  But  he  was  in  a  raging  pas- 
sion. He  knew  now  that  Elsie  was  more  to  him 
than  all  the  world  together,  and  his  sudden 
realisation  of  the  fact  came  at  an  inopportune 
moment  for  Cullyngham.  Pip  drove  him  round 
the  conservatory,  storming,  raging,  blaring  like 
an  angry  bull,  getting  in  blow  upon  blow  with 
blind,  relentless  fury.  Cullyngham  was  no  weak- 
ling and  no  coward.  Again  and  again  he  stood 
up  to  Pip,  only  to  go  down  again  under  a  smash 
like  the  kick  of  a  horse.  Finally,  in  a  culminat- 
ing paroxysm  of  frenzy,  Pip  took  his  battered 
opponent  in  his  arms  and  hurled  him  into  the 
green  tub  containing  the  orange  tree. 

Then  he  went  into  the  house,  locking  the 
French  window  behind  him.  The  fit  had  passed. 

Five  minutes  devoted  to  a  wash,  and  a  slight 
readjustment  of  his  collar  and  tie,  and  Pip  was 
himself  again.  Presently  he  went  to  seek  Elsie. 
The  girl  had  succeeded  in  freeing  her  hands  from 
the  handkerchief,  and  was  sitting,  badly  shaken, 
a  poor  little  "figure  of  interment,"  as  the  French 
say,  on  a  sofa  in  the  library.  She  looked  up 
eagerly  at  his  approach. 

"Oh,  Pip,  did  you  hurt  him?" 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Pip  simply.  "Will  you  tell 
how  it  happened?  At  least  —  don't,  if  you'd 
rather  not." 


230        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

But  she  told  him  all.  "You  were  just  in  time, 
Pip,"  she  concluded.  "I  was  just  going  to  faint, 
I  think." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  shining  eyes.  Pip 
saw  them,  and  permitted  himself  one  brief  gaze. 
This  was  no  time  for  tender  passages.  He  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  produced  a  rather 
crumpled  envelope. 

"Would  you  mind  giving  that  to  the  Squire 
for  me?"  he  said.  "I  have  to  go  away." 

"Go  away?   Oh,  Pip!   Now?" 

"Yes,  you  see,  I  have  just  — " 

"But  are  you  going  to  leave  me  in  the  house 
with  that  man?"  cried  Elsie,  with  a  sudden  ac- 
cess of  her  old  terror. 

"If  I  am  any  judge  of  human  nature,"  said 
Pip,  "he  is  out  of  the  house  by  this  time.  I 
don't  think  he  will  even  wait  for  his  luggage. 
He  — he's  not  very  presentable.  I  see  the  trap 
has  come  round  for  him.  It  can  take  me  in- 
stead, and  I'll  cart  his  luggage  up  to  town  and 
leave  it  at  his  club.  I  owe  him  some  considera- 
tion," he  added,  surveying  his  knuckles  thought- 
fully. 

Elsie  acquiesced. 

"Yes,  that  will  be  best,"  she  said.  "The 
Chells  will  think  he  went  off  in  the  ordinary 
way,  and  nobody  will  ever  know  —  Pip,  it  was 
awful." 


A  CRICKET  WEEK  231 

She  broke  off,  and  shuddered  again  and  again. 

"I  should  go  and  lie  down  till  dinner  if  I  were 
you,"  said  Pip  gently.  "All  over  now:  forget 
it.  Good-bye." 

They  shook  hands  and  walked  to  the  door  to- 
gether. 

"Why  are  you  going  away  like  this?"  said 
Elsie,  as  the  groom  piled  the  luggage  into  the 
trap. 

Pip's  face  clouded. 

"I'm  ashamed  to  say  that  what  has  happened 
made  me  forget  for  a  bit,"  he  said.  "I  have  just 
had  a  wire  from  Pipette  —  I  say,  here  is  the  whole 
cricket-party  coming  across  the  lawn!  I  simply 
can't  face  them  now.  I  could  have  told  you 
about  it,  but  not  them.  Good-bye,  and  —  good- 
bye. I  shall  see  you  again  soon,  I  hope." 

He  jumped  into  the  cart,  and  was  rattling 
down  the  drive  by  the  time  that  the  cricketers 
and  their  attendant  throng,  hot,  noisy,  and  jubi- 
lant, burst  like  a  wave  into  the  hall.  Elsie  turned 
hastily  from  a  window  as  they  entered. 

"Hallo,  Elsie,"  cried  Raven  Innes,  "what  are 
you  doing  here?" 

"Rather  a  headache,  Raven.  I  have  stayed 
in  since  tea,"  said  Elsie. 

"You  certainly  don't  look  very  well,  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Chell. 

"You  missed  a  great  finish,"  said  Cockles. 


232        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"  Only  two  wickets,"  shrieked  the  flapper. 

"Yes,"  added  the  Squire,  "and  if  one  of  them 
had  gone  down  we  should  have  been  dished. 
Pip  deserted.  Where  was  the  ruffian?  Have  you 
seen  anything  of  him,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,"  said  Elsie;  "he  was  here  just  now." 

One  or  two  knowing  smiles  illuminated  the 
honest  faces  of  the  cricketers. 

"He  came  up,"  she  continued  composedly, 
"about  four,  and  hurried  away  to  catch  the  five- 
thirty  train.  He  has  just  gone.  He  gave  me  this 
note  for  you,  Mr.  Chell." 

The  Squire  took  the  note  and  read  it,  and  his 
jolly  face  grew  grave. 

"Poor  fellow!"  he  said  soberly. 

"What  is  it?"  said  everybody. 

"Pip  has  had  a  wire  from  his  sister  to  say  that 
his  father  died  suddenly  this  morning  —  heart 
failure.  Pip  has  slipped  away  by  the  afternoon 
train:  he  did  not  want  to  spoil  our  fun.  He  asks 
me  to  say  good-bye  to  all  of  you  from  him." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND 
I 

PIP  reached  London  that  evening  to  find  the 
great  gloomy  house  in  Westock  Square  shuttered 
and  silent.  His  father's  brougham  had  driven 
up  as  usual  at  lunch-time,  after  the  morning 
round,  and  its  owner  had  been  discovered  lying 
in  a  dead  faint  inside  it.  He  had  been  carried 
into  the  house,  to  die  —  not  even  in  his  bed. 
Death,  with  whom  he  had  waged  a  vicarious 
and  more  than  commonly  successful  warfare  for 
thirty-one  years,  had  conquered  at  last,  and  that, 
too,  with  grim  irony,  in  the  very  arena  of  the 
dead  man's  triumphs  —  his  own  consulting- 
room.  The  great  physician  lay  peacefully  on 
an  operating-couch  near  the  darkened  window, 
surrounded  by  life-saving  appliances  and  books 
that  tell  how  death  may  be  averted. 

His  affairs  were  in  a  hopeless  tangle.  He  had 
risked  almost  every  penny  he  possessed  in  an  ill- 
judged  effort  to  "get  rich  quick,"  and  so  provide 
for  himself,  or  at  any  rate  for  his  family,  however 
sudden  and  direct  the  course  that  his  malady 
might  take.  Half  his  capital  had  been  sunk  in 
unremunerative  investments,  which  might  or 


234        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

might  not  pay  fifty  per  cent  some  day;  and  the 
other  half  was  gone  beyond  recall  on  an  unreal- 
ised anticipation  of  a  fall  in  copper  shares. 

A  week  later  Pip,  Pipette,  and  Mr.  Hanbury  — • 
the  latter  ten  years  older  than  when  we  last 
heard  of  him,  but  not  much  changed  except  for 
a  little  reasonable  adiposity  —  sat  at  dinner.  It 
was  almost  the  last  meal  they  were  to  take  in  the 
old  house,  for  now  res  angustce  were  to  be  the 
order  of  the  day. 

The  meal  ended,  and  coffee  having  been  served, 
Pipette,  looking  pale  and  pretty  in  her  black 
evening  frock,  gave  each  of  the  men  a  cigar, 
snipping  the  ends  herself,  as  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  do  for  her  father;  and  the  trio  composed 
themselves  to  conversation. 

"I  saw  Crampton  to-day,"  said  Pip.  (Cramp- 
ton  was  the  family  lawyer.)  "He  gave  me  the 
facts  and  figures  about  things.  I  could  n't  follow 
all  the  stuff  on  blue  paper,  but  I  asked  him  ques- 
tions and  jotted  down  what  I  wanted." 

"How  does  it  work  out?"  inquired  Hanbury. 

"By  putting  what  money  there  is  in  the  bank 
into  Consols,  and  adding  the  interest  on  the  few 
investments  that  are  paying  anything  at  all,  the 
total  income  of  the  estate  comes  to  exactly  one 
hundred  and  fifty  a  year,"  said  Pip. 

"So  long  as  the  capital  sunk  in  the  other 
investments  produces  nothing,  that  is?" 


LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND  235 

"Yes.  There  is  a  matter  of  fifteen  thousand 
pounds  buried  in  some  Australian  mining  group : 
it  might  as  well  be  sunk  in  the  sea  for  all  the  good 
it  is  doing  us.  Of  course  it  may  turn  up  trumps 
some  day,  but  not  at  present,  Crampton  says. 
So  Pipette  and  I  are  worth  just  a  hundred  and 
fifty  a  year  between  us." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  the  ash  on  Pip's  cigar 
was  perceptibly  longer  when  he  spoke  again. 

"A  hundred  and  fifty,"  he  said,  "is  not  much 
use  for  two,  but  it 's  a  comfortable  little  sum  for 
one;  so  Pipette  is  going  to  take  it  all." 

Pipette  came  round  and  sat  on  the  arm  of 
Pip's  chair  with  the  air  of  one  who  wishes  to 
argue  the  point,  and  Pip  continued  hurriedly, — 

"We  talked  it  over  with  her  this  afternoon, 
Ham,  and  she  agreed  with  me  that  for  the  present 
it  will  be  best  for  her  to  accept  the  Rossiters' 
invitation  to  join  them  on  their  visit  to  Spain  and 
Algiers,  which  is  to  last  about  a  year.  Pipette 
will  be  able  to  pay  her  full  share  of  the  expenses, 
so  she  won't  be  dependent  on  anybody.  At  the 
same  time  she  will  be  having  a  good  time  with 
really  nice  people  instead  of  —  instead  of  — " 

"Instead  of  sitting  all  day  in  a  two-pair-back 
in  London?"  said  Hanbury. 

"That's  it,  exactly,"  said  Pip,  grateful  for  this 
moral  support.  "Of  course  it  would  be  ripping" 
—  Pipette  was  beginning  to  shake,  and  he  put 


236        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

his  arm  clumsily  round  her  —  "it  would  be  rip- 
ping to  have  remained  together,  but  it  can't  be 
done  at  present.  In  a  year,  perhaps.  The  old 
lady  has  been  very  sensible  about  it." 

Apparently  being  "sensible"  did  not  include 
abstinence  from  tears,  for  Pipette  was  now  weep- 
ing softly.  She  had  lost  her  father  only  a  week, 
and  now  she  was  to  lose  her  beloved  brother. 

Hanbury,  who,  like  most  strong  men,  was 
helpless  against  feminine  tears,  coughed  self- 
consciously. 

"It  sounds  a  good  arrangement,"  he  said.  "I 
suppose  it  is  quite  impossible  for  you  two  to  live 
together?  With  the  hundred  and  fifty,  and  what 
you  could  make  yourself,  Pip  — " 

"How  am  I  going  to  make  it?"  inquired  Pip. 

"What  are  your  prospects?" 

"What  are  my  accomplishments?  I  am  just 
twenty-five;  I  am  sound  in  wind  and  limb;  and  I 
sometimes  take  wickets.  Can  you  suggest  any- 
thing else?" 

"Yes;  you  possess  a  stout  heart  and  a  hard 
head." 

"If  by  hard  you  mean  thick,  I  do,"  agreed 
Pip  dismally. 

"Thick  heads  have  their  market  like  every- 
thing else.  Where  are  you  going  to  take 
yours?" 

"Where  would  you  suggest?   I  have  my  own 


LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND  237 

ideas  on  the  subject,  of  course,  but  I  should  like 
to  hear  yours,  Ham." 

Hanbury  looked  across  at  him  quizzically. 

"My  young  friend,"  he  said,  with  a  flash  of  his 
old  pedagogic  manner,  "long  experience  of  your 
character  warns  me  that  you  have  determined  on 
some  crack-brained  scheme,  and  are  now  pre- 
pared to  defend  it  against  all  comers.  Proceed." 

Pip  grinned. 

"As  you  like,"  he  said.  "But  I  think  a  dis- 
cussion would  clear  the  air.  Here  goes!  Pipette 
is  appointed  chairman.  The  subject  for  debate 
is  'The  Choice  of  a  Career  for  a  Young  Man 
without  Education,  Ability,  or  Prospects.*  Fire 
away,  Ham,  and  bear  in  mind  that  all  the 
learned  professions  are  barred  to  me." 

"I'm  not  sure  of  that.  How  about  school- 
mastering?" 

"At  a  Preparatory?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  recommend  the  billet?" 

"  Frankly  —  no.  Preparatory  work  is  all  right 
provided  that  you  don't  mind  a  berth  in  which 
your  real  work  only  begins  at  playtime,  and 
which,  unless  you  can  afford  ultimately  to  set 
up  for  yourself,  offers  you  an  absolutely  maxi- 
mum screw  of  about  two  hundred  a  year." 

"I  know  the  sort  of  thing,"  said  Pip.  "You 
start  on  about  eighty,  with  board  — " 


238        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"Which  means  a  poky  dust-hole  to  sleep  in, 
meat-tea,  and  — " 

The  post  is  one  we  can  unreservedly  recom- 
mend' —  I  know." 

"'Write  promptly  yet  carefully,'"  chanted 
Ham,  "'to  the  Principal,  the  Rev.  Adolphus 
Bug  gins  — '" 

"'Explaining  that  you  have  heard  of  this  va- 
cancy through  our  agency  — '" 

"'Stating  your  degree  and  previous  experience 
(if  any}-"" 

'"If  a  member  of  the  Church  of  England  — '" 

"Your  willingness  to  participate  in  school 
games  — 

"'If  musical— '" 

'"If  possible,  a  photograph '  —  yah ! " 

"Don't  you  think  we  are  rather  wandering 
from  the  point?"  inquired  the  mystified  chair- 
woman. 

The  rhapsodists  ceased  their  antistrophes  and 
apologised. 

"True,"  said  Ham.  "Suggestion  number  one 
is  negatived  without  a  division.  Let  us  try  a 
fresh  cast.  Have  you  any  influence  with  business 
firms?" 

"No,  thank  God!"  said  Pip  simply.  "An  office 
would  just  kill  me.  If  I  had  any  chance  of  a  post 
I  should  of  course  have  to  apply; but  I  have  n't, 
so  I  need  n't." 


LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND  239 

There  was  another  pause. 

"If,"  said  Ham  reflectively,  "there  was  any 
prospect  of  your  sunken  capital  rising  to  the  sur- 
face again,  say  in  two  or  three  years'  time,  and  it 
was  simply  a  matter  of  hanging  on  till  then,  you 
could  afford  to  spend  the  intervening  period  in  a 
very  interesting  fashion." 

"As  how?" 

"Go  and  see  the  world  for  yourself,  above  and 
below,  inside  and  out.  Knock  about  and  rub 
shoulders  with  all  sorts  of  folk.  Plunge  beneath 
the  surface  and  see  things  as  they  are.  Make 
your  way  everywhere,  and  if  possible  live  by  the 
work  of  your  own  two  hands.  You  would  acquire 
a  knowledge  of  mankind  that  few  men  possess. 
At  the  worst  you  could  hang  on  and  make  a 
living  somehow  until  your  ship  came  in  —  if  it 
were  only  as  a  dock-hand  or  a  railway  porter. 
It  would  be  a  grand  chance,  Pip.  Most  men  are 
so  unenterprising.  Those  at  the  top  never  want 
to  see  what  things  are  like  below,  and  those  below 
are  so  afraid  of  staying  there  forever  that  their 
eyes  are  constantly  turned  upwards  and  they 
miss  a  lot.  I  'd  give  something  to  be  a  vagabond 
for  a  year  or  two." 

"What  fearful  sentiments  for  a  respectable 
house-master!"  said  Pipette  severely;  but  Pip's 
eyes  glowed. 

"However,"  continued  Hanbury  more  soberly, 


240       .THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"Pip  can't  afford  to  waste  time  observing  life 
in  a  purely  academic  way  down  in  the  basement. 
He  must  start  getting  upstairs  at  once.'* 

"Hear,  hear!"  said  the  chairwoman. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Pip,  "the  scheme 
I  have  in  my  eye  rather  meets  the  case,  I  think." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Well,  I  made  a  list  of  all  the  careers  open  to 
me.  I'll  go  through  them." 

Though  his  final  choice  was  all  they  wished  to 
know,  his  audience  settled  themselves  patiently 
to  listen.  They  knew  it  was  useless  to  hurry  Pip. 

"The  things  I  thought  of,"  continued  the 
orator,  "are  —  cricket-pro,  gamekeeper,  police- 
man, emigrant  to  Canada,  and  Tommy." 

He  smiled  genially  upon  his  gaping  compan- 
ions. "They  are  all  good  open-air  jobs,"  he 
explained. 

Pipette  stiffened  in  her  chair. 

"But  they  will  none  of  them  do,"  he  added. 

Pipette  relaxed  again. 

"This,"  said  Hanbury,  "is  interesting  and 
human.  We  must  have  your  reasons  for  rejecting 
these  noble  callings,  seriatim.  A  cricket-pro,  for 
instance?" 

"Once  a  'pro'  always  a  'pro/"  said  Pip.  "I 
hope  some  day  to  play  as  an  amateur  again.  And 
while  we  are  on  the  subject,  I  may  as  well  say 
that  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  professional-amateur. 


LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND  241 

No  two  hundred  a  year  as  assistant-deputy- 
under-secretary  to  a  county  club  for  me,  please!" 

"Good  boy,"  said  Hanbury.  "Now,  please  — 
gamekeeper?" 

"I'm  too  old.  A  gamekeeper  requires  to  be 
born  to  the  job.  I  have  the  ordinary  sporting 
man's  knowledge  of  game  and  sport  generally, 
but  I  should  be  a  hundred  before  I  learned  as 
much  about  the  real  ins  and  outs  of  the  business 
as  —  a  poacher's  baby." 

"Quite  so.   Policeman?" 

"The  only  chance  of  promotion  in  the  police 
force  is  in  the  detective  direction,  and  I  —  I 
think  detection  comes  under  the  head  of  learned 
professions." 

"Tommy,  then?" 

"A  Tommy's  would  be  a  grand  life  if  there 
was  always  a  war.  But,  Ham,  think  what  the 
existence  of  a  gentleman-ranker  must  be  in  time 
of  peace.  A  few  hours'  duty  a  day,  and  the  rest 
—  beer  and  nursemaids!  Help!" 

"You  have  been  devoting  much  time  to  re- 
flection, Pip.  Well,  to  continue.  How  about 
emigrating?" 

"Emigration  is  such  a  tremendously  big  step. 
If  one  is  prepared  for  it,  well  and  good.  But  I  'm 
not  ripe  yet.  You  see,  Canada  and  Australia  are 
so  far  away,  and  I  'm  not  quite  prepared  to  give 
up-" 


242        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"England,  home,  and  beauty  —  eh,  Pip?  Is 
that  how  the  wind  blows?'* 

"Dry  up!"  said  Pip,  hastily  passing  on  to  his 
peroration.  "Before  I  try  any  of  these  things  I 
am  going  to  see  how  my  own  pet  scheme  pans 
out." 

"And  that  is  —  ?"  said  Pipette  breathlessly. 

"I  can  use  my  hands  a  bit,  and  have  a  sort  of 
rough  knowledge  of  mechanics,"  continued  Pip, 
staring  into  the  fire  and  stating  his  case  with 
maddening  deliberation,  "and  I  don't  mind  hard 
work.  Mind  you  — " 

"Pip,  do  get  on!"  almost  screamed  poor 
Pipette. 

Pip,  looking  slightly  surprised,  came  to  the 
point. 

"I  am  going  to  try  for  a  job,"  said  he,  "at  a 
big  motor  wrorks  I  know  of.  I  will  start  as  a 
cleaner,  or  greaser,  or  anything  they  please,  if 
they'll  take  me;  and  when  I  have  got  a  practical 
knowledge  of  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  business,  I 
shall  try  to  set  up  as  a  chauffeur." 

He  broke  off,  and  scanned  his  hearers'  faces 
rather  defiantly. 

"How  do  you  like  the  idea?"  he  asked. 

"  You  'd  get  horribly  dirty,  Pip,"  said  practical 
Pipette.  "  Think  of  the  oil !" 

Pip  laughed.   "I'll  get  used  to  that." 

"And  how  long  would  you  stick  to  it?" 


LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND  243 

"What,  the  oil?" 

"No,  the  trade." 

"That  depends.  If  I  find  the  life  absolutely 
unbearable  for  any  reason  —  Trades  Unions,  for 
instance  —  I  shall  jack  it  up.  But  I  don't  think 
it  is  very  likely." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Hanbury,  who  had  had 
exceptional  opportunities  for  studying  Pip's  char- 
acter. 

"Then,"  continued  Pip,  with  something  like 
enthusiasm,  "if  those  sunken  shares  took  up, 
and  there  was  money  to  be  had,  I  might  buy 
myself  a  partnership  in  a  motor  business.  If 
they  don't  take  up,  I  must  just  save  my  wages 
till  I  can  afford  to  go  out  and  farm  in  Canada. 
I'll  take  you  with  me,  Pipette,  if  I  go,"  he  added 
reassuringly. 

ii 

A  month  later  Pip  obtained  a  humble  and 
oleaginous  appointment  at  the  Gresley  Motor 
Works  in  Westminster  Bridge  Road. 

The  foreman  who  engaged  him  was  short- 
handed  at  the  time,  and  though  Pip  was  obvi- 
ously too  old  for  a  beginner,  he  was  impressed 
with  his  thews  and  sinews.  After  a  few  weeks, 
finding  that  Pip  did  not  drink,  and  if  given  a 
job,  however  trivial,  to  perform,  could  be  relied 
on  with  absolute  certainty  to  complete  it  on  time, 


244        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

the  foreman  unbent  still  further,  and  paid  Pip 
the  compliment  of  heaping  upon  him  work  that 
should  have  been  done  by  more  competent  but 
less  dependable  folk.  Pip  throve  under  this 
treatment,  and  in  spite  of  the  aloofness  of  his 
fellow-workmen,  who  scented  a  "toff,"  the 
novelty  and  genuine  usefulness  of  his  new  life 
inspired  him  with  a  zest  and  enthusiasm  that 
took  him  over  many  rough  places. 

For  it  was  not  all  plain  sailing.  The  horny- 
handed  son  of  toil  is  no  doubt  the  salt  of  the 
earth  and  the  backbone  of  the  British  nation, 
but  he  is  not  always  an  amenable  companion, 
and  he  is  apt  to  regard  habitual  sobriety  and 
strict  attention  to  duty  in  a  colleague  as  a  species 
of  indirect  insult  to  himself.  However,  abun- 
dance of  good  temper,  together  with  a  few  hard 
knocks  when  occasion  demanded,  soon  smoothed 
over  Pip's  difficulties  in  this  direction;  and  pres- 
ently the  staff  of  Gresley's  left  him  pretty  much 
to  himself,  tacitly  agreeing  to  regard  him  as  an 
eccentric  but  harmless  lunatic  who  liked  work. 

Pip  purposely  avoided  young  Gresley  when  he 
applied  for  the  post.  His  idea  was  to  obtain 
employment  independently,  if  possible,  and  only 
to  appeal  to  his  friend  as  a  last  resource.  He 
was  anxious,  too,  to  spare  Gresley  the  undoubted 
embarrassment  of  having  to  oblige  a  venerated 
member  of  his  own  college  and  club  by  appoint- 


LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND  245 

ing  him  to  a  job  worth  less  than  thirty  shillings 
a  week.  Gresley,  moreover,  would  probably  have 
foisted  him  into  a  position  for  which  he  was 
totally  unfitted,  or  would  have  pressed  a  large 
salary  on  him  in  return  for  purely  nominal  serv- 
ices. Pip  was  determined  that  what  he  made 
he  would  earn,  and  so  he  started  quietly  and 
anonymously  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  He  even 
adopted  a  nom  de  guerre,  lest  a  glance  at  the 
time-sheet  or  pay-list  should  betray  his  identity 
to  his  employer.  The  Gresley  Works  contained 
seven  hundred  men,  and  it  was  not  likely,  Pip 
thought,  that  young  Gresley,  who,  though  he 
was  seen  frequently  about  the  shops,  spent  most 
of  his  time  in  the  drawing-office,  would  recognise 
even  his  most  admired  friend  amid  a  horde  of 
grimy  mechanics. 

But  for  all  that  they  met,  as  they  were  bound 
to  do.  A  city  set  on  a  hill  cannot  be  hid.  Pip's 
reliability  and  general  smartness  soon  raised  him 
from  the  ruck  of  his  mates,  and  presently  his 
increasing  responsibilities  began  to  bring  him 
in  contact  with  those  in  authority.  He  had  not 
counted  on  this;  so,  realising  that  recognition 
was  now  only  a  matter  of  time,  and  wishing  to 
avoid  the  embarrassment  of  an  unpremeditated 
meeting  in  the  works,  he  waylaid  his  friend  one 
morning  in  a  quiet  storehouse.  The  surprise 
took  young  Gresley's  breath  away,  and  Pip  took 


246        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

advantage  of  the  period  preceding  its  return  to 
give  a  hurried  explanation  of  his  presence  there, 
coupled  with  a  request  that  his  anonymity  might 
be  respected. 

That  night  young  Gresley,  filled  with  ad- 
miration, told  the  whole  story  to  his  father. 

"Of  course,  Dad,  you'll  move  him  up  to  a  good 
post  at  once?"  he  said. 

Old  Gresley,  leaning  his  scraggy  face  upon  his 
hand,  replied  curtly,  "I  shall  do  no  such  thing." 

The  son,  who  knew  that  his  father  never  said 
a  thing  without  reason,  waited. 

"Wilmot?  He  was  the  young  fellow  who 
helped  you  when  you  went  fooling  away  your 
money  at  cards,  was  n't  he?"  continued  the  old 
man,  suddenly  turning  his  Napoleonic  eye  upon 
his  son. 

"  Yes.   He  pulled  me  out  of  a  tight  place." 

"That  young  man  would  n't  thank  me  for 
undeserved  promotion.  He  has  the  right  stuff 
in  him,  and  he  wants  to  do  things  from  the  be- 
ginning —  the  only  way !  I  often  wish  that  you 
had  had  to  start  in  the  same  fashion,  Harry: 
there's  nothing  like  it  for  making  men.  But 
your  foolish  old  dad  had  been  over  the  ground 
before  you,  and  that  made  things  easy.  What 
that  boy  wants  is  work.  I'll  see  he  gets  it,  and 
I  '11  watch  how  he  does  it,  and  I  '11  take  care  that 
he  is  paid  according  to  his  merits." 


LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND  247 

Consequently  Pip,  much  to  his  relief,  was  left  in 
undisturbed  possession  of  his  self-sought  limbo, 
and  made  the  recipient  of  an  ever-increasing 
load  of  work,  —  varied,  strenuous,  responsible 
work,  —  and  for  three  sturdy  years  he  lived  a  life 
that  hardened  his  muscles,  broadened  his  views, 
taught  him  self-reliance,  cheery  contentment 
with  his  lot,  and,  in  short,  made  a  man  of  him. 

He  learned  to  live  on  a  pound  a  week.  He 
learned  to  drink  four  ale  and  smoke  shag.  He 
became  an  habitue  of  those  establishments  which 
are  so  ably  administered  by  Lord  Rowton  and 
Mr.  Lockhart.  He  obtained  an  insight  into  the 
workings  of  the  proletariat  mind.  He  learned 
the  first  lesson  which  all  who  desire  to  know 
their  world  must  learn,  namely,  that  mankind 
is  not  divided  into  three  classes,  —  our  own,  an- 
other immediately  above  it,  and  another  immedi- 
ately below  it,  —  but  that  a  motor  factory  may 
contain  as  many  grades  and  distinctions,  as 
many  social  barriers  and  smart  sets,  as  many 
cliques  and  cabals,  as  Mayfair  —  or  Upper  Toot- 
ing. He  learned  to  distinguish  the  stupid,  beer- 
swilling,  illiterate,  but  mainly  honest  British 
workman  of  the  old-fashioned  type  from  the 
precocious,  clerkly,  unstable,  rather  weedy  prod- 
uct of  the  board-school  and  music-hall.  He  dis- 
covered earnest  young  men  in  blue  overalls  who 
read  Ruskin,  and  pulverised  empires  and  withered 


248        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

up  dynasties  once  a  week  in  a  debating  society. 
He  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  paid  agitator, 
with  his  stereotyped  phrases  and  glib  assertions 
of  the  right  of  man  to  a  fair  day's  work  and  a  fair 
day's  wage,  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  he  did  not 
know  the  meaning  of  the  first  and  would  never 
have  been  content  with  the  second.  He  rubbed 
shoulders  with  men  who  struggled,  amid  cylinders 
and  accumulators,  with  religious  doubts;  men 
who  had  been  "  saved,"  and  who  insisted  on  leav- 
ing evidence  to  that  effect,  in  pamphlet  form, 
in  their  mates'  coat-pockets;  and  men  who,  either 
through  excess  of  intellect  or  from  lack  of  advers- 
ity, had  never  had  any  need  of  God,  and  conse- 
quently did  not  believe  in  Him. 

He  saw  other  things,  many  of  which  made  him 
sick.  He  saw  child-wives  of  seventeen,  tied  to 
stunted  youths  of  twenty,  already  inured  and 
almost  indifferent  to  a  thrashing  every  Satur- 
day night.  He  saw  babies  everywhere,  chiefly  in 
public-houses,  where  their  sole  diet  appeared  to 
consist  of  as  much  gin  as  they  could  lick  off  the 
fingers  which  accommodating  parents  from  time 
to  time  dipped  into  their  glasses  and  thrust  into 
their  wailing  little  mouths.  He  saw  the  beast  that 
a  woman  can  make  of  a  man  and  the  wreck 
that  a  man  can  make  of  a  woman,  and  the  horror 
that  drink  can  make  of  both;  and,  being  young 
and  inexperienced,  he  grew  depressed  at  these 


LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND  249 

sights,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  world 
was  very  evil. 

And  then  he  began  to  notice  other  things  — 
the  goodness  of  the  poor  to  the  poor;  game 
struggles  with  grinding  poverty;  incredible  cheer- 
fulness under  drab  surroundings  and  in  face  of 
imminent  starvation;  the  loyalty  of  the  wife  to 
the  husband  who  ill-used  her;  the  good-hu- 
moured resignation  of  the  shrew's  husband;  the 
splendid  family  pride  of  the  family  who,  though 
they  lived  in  one  room,  considered  very  prop- 
erly that  one  room  (with  rent  paid  punctually) 
constitutes  a  castle;  the  whip-round  among  a 
gang  of  workmen  when  a  mate  was  laid  by  and 
his  whole  family  rendered  destitute;  and  finally 
the  children,  whom  neither  dingy  courts,  nor 
crowded  alleys,  nor  want  of  food,  nor  occasional 
beatings,  nor  absence  of  any  playthings  save  tiles, 
half -bricks,  and  dead  kittens,  could  prevent  from 
running,  skipping,  shouting,  quarrelling,  playing 
soldiers,  keeping  shop,  and  making  believe  gen- 
erally, just  as  persistently  and  inconsequently  as 
their  more  prosperous  little  brethren  were  doing, 
much  more  expensively,  not  many  streets  away. 
Pip  saw  all  these  things,  and  he  began  to  realise, 
as  we  must  all  do  if  we  wait  long  enough,  that  it 
takes  all  sorts  to  make  a  world,  and  that  life  is 
full  of  compensations. 

In  short,  three  years  of  close  contact  with  the 


250        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

raw  material  of  humanity  gave  Pip  a  deeper 
knowledge  of  man  as  God  made  him,  than  he 
could  have  acquired  perhaps  from  a  whole  life- 
time spent  in  contemplating  the  finished  article 
in  a  more  highly  veneered  and  less  transparent 
class  of  society. 

Pip  allowed  himself  certain  relaxations.  He 
had  consented  to  keep  fifty  pounds  out  of  Pi- 
pette's hundred  and  fifty  a  year,  and  once  a 
month,  on  Saturday  afternoons,  after  a  prelim- 
inary scrub  and  change  in  his  lodging,  he  de- 
parted to  the  West  End,  and  indulged  in  the  lux- 
ury of  a  Turkish  bath.  (He  needed  it,  as  the 
heated  individual  who  operated  upon  him  was 
wont,  with  some  asperity,  to  remark.)  Then  he 
dined  in  state  at  one  of  those  surprising  two- 
shilling  tables  d'hote  in  a  Soho  restaurant,  and 
went  on  to  the  play  —  the  pit.  Sometimes  he 
went  to  the  Oval  or  Lord's,  and  with  itching  arm 
watched  the  cricket.  Once  he  heard  a  bystander 
lament  the  absence,  abroad,  of  one  Wilmot,  a 
celebrated  "left-'ender  "("Terror,  my  boy!  Mike 
this  lot  sit  up  if  'e  was  'ere!"),  and  he  glowed 
foolishly  to  think  that  he  was  not  forgotten. 
Absence  abroad  was  the  official  explanation  of 
his  non-appearance  in  first-class  cricket  during 
this  period,  and  also  served  to  satisfy  the  curi- 
osity of  those  of  his  friends  who  wanted  to  know 
what  had  become  of  him. 


LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND  251 

Sometimes,  as  he  sat  in  the  shilling  seats  at 
Lord's,  he  wondered  if  he  would  ever  be  able  to 
use  his  member's  ticket  again;  and  he  smiled 
when  he  pictured  to  himself  what  the  effect  would 
be  if  a  petrol-scented  mechanic  were  to  elbow 
his  way  in  and  claim  a  seat  in  the  Old  Blues' 
reservation ! 

He  saw  no  friends  but  Hanbury,  who  occasion- 
ally looked  him  up  in  his  lodging,  and  with  whom 
he  once  went  clothed  and  in  propria  persona  to  a 
quiet  golfing  resort  during  one  joyful  Christmas 
week,  when  the  works  were  closed  from  Friday 
night  till  Wednesday  morning.  He  heard  reg- 
ularly from  Pipette.  At  first  she  was  obviously 
miserable,  and  Pip  was  at  some  pains  to  write 
her  boisterously  cheerful  letters  about  the  pleas- 
antness of  his  new  existence  and  the  enormous 
saving  of  money  to  be  derived  from  not  keeping 
up  appearances,  knowing  well  that  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  happy  would  be  the  first  essential  in 
producing  the  same  condition  in  Pipette.  After 
a  little  she  wrote  more  cheerfully:  then  fol- 
lowed a  regular  year  of  light,  irresponsible, 
thoroughly  feminine  correspondence,  full  of  the 
joy  of  youth  and  lively  appreciation  of  the  scenes 
and  people  around  her.  Then  came  a  period 
when  unseeing  Pip  found  her  letters  rather  dull 
—  a  trifle  perfunctory,  in  fact.  Then  came  a  fort- 
night during  which  there  was  no  letter  at  all,  and 


252        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

Pip  grew  anxious.  Finally,  just  as  he  sat  down  to 
write  to  Mrs.  Rossiter  inquiring  if  his  sister  was 
ill,  there  came  a  letter,  —  a  long,  breathless,  half- 
shy,  half -rapturous  screed,  —  containing  the  ab- 
solutely unprecedented  piece  of  information  that 
Providence  had  brought  her  into  contact  with  the 
most  splendid  fellow  —  bracketed  with  Pip,  of 
course  —  that  the  world  had  ever  seen;  that  the 
said  fellow  —  Jim  Rossiter  —  incredible  as  it 
might  appear,  had  told  her  that  he  loved  her; 
whereupon  Pipette  had  become  suddenly  con- 
scious that  she  loved  him;  that  everybody  was 
very  pleased  and  kind  about  it,  and  —  did  Pip 
mind? 

Pip,  who  knew  Jim  Rossiter  for  a  good  fellow, 
wrote  back  soberly  but  heartily.  He  congratu- 
lated Pipette,  gave  his  unconditional  assent  to 
the  match,  gratefully  declined  an  invitation  to 
come  and  take  up  his  abode  with  the  young 
couple  after  their  marriage,  and  faithfully  prom- 
ised, whenever  that  joyful  ceremony  should  take 
place,  to  have  a  bath  and  come  and  give  the 
bride  away.  Which  brings  little  Pipette's  part 
in  this  narrative  to  a  happy  conclusion. 

Of  Elsie  Pip  heard  little,  and  tried  to  think 
not  at  all.  At  present  she  was  not  for  him,  and 
probably  never  would  be.  His  mind  was  quite 
clear  on  the  subject.  When,  if  ever,  his  ship 
came  in,  he  would  seek  her  out  wherever  she 


LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND  253 

was,  and  —  provided  she  had  not  married  some 
one  else,  which  was  only  too  likely,  Pip  thought 
—  ask  her  to  marry  him.  Till  then  he  was  a 
member  of  the  working  classes,  and  must  not 
cry  for  the  moon.  Still,  though  he  conscien- 
tiously refrained  from  direct  inquiries,  he  greed- 
ily hoarded  every  careless  item  of  information 
on  the  subject  that  cropped  up  in  Pipette's 
letters. 

Elsie  had  no  parents,  and  soon  after  Pip's  dis- 
appearance "abroad"  had  gone  for  a  trip  round 
the  world  with  Raven  Innes  and  his  wife.  She 
spent  some  months  in  India,  and  Pip,  who  knew 
that  that  bright  jewel  of  the  Empire's  crown 
contains  many  men  and  few  women,  shuddered 
and  ground  his  teeth.  However,  no  bad  news 
came,  and  presently  he  heard  from  Pipette  that 
the  travellers  had  left  Colombo  and  were  on  their 
way  to  Australia.  After  that  Pipette  became 
engaged,  and  the  curtain  fell  upon  Elsie's  move- 
ments, for  Pipette's  letters  now  harped  upon  a 
single  string,  and  Pip  was  far  too  shy  to  ask  for 
information  outright.  So  he  hardened  his  heart, 
hoped  for  the  best,  and  went  on  with  his  day's 
work,  as  many  a  man  has  had  to  do  before  him, 
and  been  all  the  better  for  it. 

One  sentimental  indulgence  he  allowed  him- 
self. Every  Christmas  he  sent  Elsie  a  present, 
together  with  his  best  wishes  for  the  season.  Only 


254        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

that,  and  nothing  more.   No  long  screed :  above 
all,  no  address.    He  had  his  pride. 

After  two  years'  work  his  duties  took  a  more 
varied  and  infinitely  pleasanter  form.  He  was 
by  this  time  a  thoroughly  competent  workman. 
He  could  take  an  engine  to  pieces  and  put  it 
together  again.  He  could  diagnose  every  ill  that 
a  motor-car  is  heir  to,  —  and  a  motor-car  is  more 
than  human  in  this  respect,  —  and  he  was  a  fear- 
less and  cool-headed  driver.  Consequently  he 
was  frequently  sent  out  on  trial  trips,  touring 
excursions,  and  the  like;  and  owing  to  his  ex- 
cellent appearance  and  pleasant  manner,  was 
greatly  in  request  as  a  teacher.  More  than  one 
butterfly  of  fashion  conceived  a  tenderness  in  her 
worldly  and  elastic  little  heart  for  the  big  silent 
chauffeur,  who  explained  the  whole  art  of  motor- 
ing so  clearly  and  quietly,  and  was  never  dirty 
to  look  at  or  familiar  to  speak  to.  He  grew  ac- 
customed —  though  slowly  —  to  receiving  tips, 
even  from  his  own  former  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances, more  than  one  of  whom  sat  by  his  side, 
and  even  conversed  with  him  without  recogni- 
tion. His  name  was  now  John  Armstrong,  —  he 
was  holding  back  his  own  till  a  more  prosperous 
time,  —  and  he  had  shaved  off  a  mustache  of 
which,  as  an  undergraduate,  he  had  been  secretly 
but  inordinately  proud.  These  changes,  together 
with  his  leather  livery  and  peaked  cap,  neutral- 


LIFE  AT  FIRST-HAND  255 

ised  him  down  into  one  of  a  mere  type,  and  he 
looked  just  like  scores  of  other  clean-shaven, 
hawk-eyed  chauffeurs. 

One  day  he  drove  down  a  roystering  party  of 
cricketers  to  play  a  match  in  the  country.  When 
the  game  began  it  was  discovered  that  the  visit- 
ing team  was  a  man  short.  The  captain,  hard 
put  to  it  to  find  a  substitute,  cast  his  eye  upon 
the  chauffeur,  and  straightway  pressed  him,  a 
not  unwilling  victim,  into  the  service.  In  black 
leather  breeches  and  shirt-sleeves  Pip  fielded  in 
the  sun,  "revolving  many  memories,"  as  Tenny- 
son says;  and  towards  the  end  of  the  match, 
when  runs  were  coming  somewhat  too  freely  and 
all  the  bowlers  had  been  tried  in  vain,  was  given 
the  ball;  whereupon,  throwing  caution  to  the 
winds,  he  disposed  of  five  wickets  in  exactly 
three  overs.  Fortunately  the  team  had  lunched 
generously,  as  teams  that  come  down  from  the 
city  for  a  day's  sport  not  infrequently  do,  so 
the  enthusiasm  which  Pip's  feat  evoked  was  too 
alcoholic  to  be  discriminating. 

One  more  experience  Pip  had,  and  as  it  marked 
the  closing  stages  of  his  apprenticeship  to  man- 
hood, and  also  introduced  him  to  a  character 
whose  existence  was  foreshadowed  in  the  second 
chapter  of  this  book,  it  shall  be  set  down  at 
length. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   PRINCIPAL   BOY:   AN   INTERLUDE 
I 

CAPTAIN  LOTTINGAR  opened  the  door  of  the 
library  and  roared  up  the  staircase  — 

"Lottie!" 

Miss  Lottie  Lottingar  came  down.  She  was 
an  exceedingly  handsome  young  person,  —  what 
is  usually  known  as  "a  fine  figure  of  a  woman,"  — 
but  there  was  nothing  of  the  squire's  daughter 
about  her,  as  there  should  be  about  a  youthful 
chatelaine  who  comes  tripping  down  the  shallow 
oak  stairs  of  a  great  Elizabethan  country  house. 
There  is  usually  something  breezy,  healthy,  and 
eminently  English  about  such  a  girl.  Lottie, 
although  her  colour  was  good  and  her  costume 
countrified  enough,  smacked  of  the  town.  She 
was  undeniably  attractive,  but  in  her  present 
surroundings  she  somehow  suggested  a  bottle  of 
champagne  at  a  school-treat.  She  would  have 
made  an  admirable  "Principal  Boy"  in  a  panto- 
mime. As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  been  one. 

Her  father  led  the  way  into  the  library,  and 
having  shut  the  door,  lit  a  cigarette  and  leaned 
against  the  carved  mantelpiece.  Lottie  sat  on 
a  table  and  swung  her  legs. 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  257 

"Where's  the  Honourable?"  inquired  the  cap- 
tain. 

"Out,"  said  Lottie  tersely. 

"I  know  that.   Where?" 

"Plantations." 

"What 'she  after?" 

"Shrimps,  I  expect,"  said  Miss  Lottingar  flip- 
pantly. 

"That  will  do.  We're  talking  business  just 
now.  Showing  any  signs  yet?" 

"Lots." 

"When  will  he  come  to  the  scratch?" 

"Pretty  soon,  if  you  and  your  pals  don't  mess 
things." 

The  gallant  captain's  brow  lowered. 

"None  of  your  lip,  my  girl!"  he  remarked. 
"What  do  you  mean  —  mess  things?" 

"I  mean  that  you'll  have  to  play  carefully  if 
you  are  n't  going  to  scare  him  away." 

"Scare  him?   How?" 

"Well,  you  and  the  others  are  a  bit  out  of 
your  depth  in  this  affair.  I  '11  do  you  the  justice, 
Dad,  to  admit  that  in  the  ordinary  way  of  busi- 
ness you  are  a  hard  nut  to  crack;  but  coming  the 
country  gentleman  over  a  man  who,  though 
he's  a  mug,  is  a  country  gentleman,  is  rather 
more  of  a  job  than  your  lot  can  manage  comfort- 
ably. Look  at  Jerry !" 

"What's  wrong  with  Jerry?" 


258        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"Him?  It's  the  first  time  he's  played  at  be- 
ing a  gamekeeper,  and  he  does  n't  know  the  rules, 
that 'sail." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"The  Honourable  told  me.  Said  it  was  n't  his 
business,  of  course,  but  he  was  afraid  my  father 
had  got  hold  of  a  thoroughly  incompetent  keeper, 
and  perhaps  he  ought  to  be  told  so  —  haw ! " 

The  captain  snorted. 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  asked. 

"I  advised  him,"  replied  his  daughter,  smiling 
indulgently,  "not  to  mention  it.  I  said  you 
were  rather  fond  of  your  own  judgment  in  some 
things,  and  might  be  offended." 
*  "Well,  Jerry  does  his  best,"  said  Lottingar; 
"but  you  are  right,  Lottie,  for  all  that.  He'll 
muck  things.  You  must  keep  the  young  fool 
out  of  his  way.  Can't  you  take  him  out  for 
walks,  or  something?" 

"Walks?  What  excitement!"  Miss  Lottingar 
cast  up  her  eyes  pathetically. 

"Well,  you  can  go  motoring  with  him  as  soon 
as  we  get  a  chauffeur.  That's  what  I  wanted  to 
see  you  about." 

"  Who  is  the  chauffeur?  One  of  the  —  one  of 
your  friends?" 

"No,  worse  luck!  Every  man  I  can  trust  is 
in  this  business  already.  We  must  make  shift 
with  some  absolutely  straight  fool." 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  259 

"That'll  be  a  pleasant  change,"  remarked 
Miss  Lottingar. 

"It  will  be  all  right  in  the  long  run,"  con- 
tinued her  father.  "He  need  never  suspect  any- 
thing. We  can  keep  him  mowing  the  grass  or 
something  during  his  spare  time.  And  if  you 
can't  bring  off  that  proposal  within  a  week,  my 
girl,"  he  concluded,  throwing  his  cigarette  into 
the  grate,  "you're  not  the  sort  I  took  you 
for." 

"Give  me  the  motor;  I'll  do  the  rest,"  said 
Miss  Lottie,  quite  undisturbed  by  this  direct 
reference  to  her  virgin  affections. 

"And  for  the  Lord's  sake  be  quick  about  it! 
The  expense  of  all  this  flummery  is  something 
cruel.  There'll  be  nothing  left  to  divide  when 
it's  all  over  if  you  can't  — " 

"There's  somebody  coming  up  the  drive,"  said 
Lottie,  who  was  gazing  indifferently  out  of  the 
window. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  door  was  opened  by 
the  captain's  butler,  an  elderly  gentleman  of 
benevolent  appearance.  A  student  of  physiog- 
nomy would  have  put  him  down  as  a  rather  ec- 
centric and  easily-imposed-upon  philanthropist. 
(He  had  made  his  living  almost  exclusively  out 
of  this  fact  for  the  past  thirty  years.) 

"Young  feller  to  see  you,  Cap,"  he  announced, 
having  first  satisfied  himself  that,  saving  the 


260        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

presence  of  the  Principal  Boy,  his  employer  was 
alone. 

"About  the  motor?" 

"Yes." 

"Show  him  in." 

The  butler  retired,  and  presently  returned, 
ushering  a  young  man,  squarely  built  and  black 
of  hair,  with  serious  blue  eyes  and  a  healthy 
brown  face. 

"I  came  to  see  if  you  were  still  in  want  of  a 
chauffeur,  sir,"  he  said  in  reply  to  the  captain's 
interrogation.  "I  have  been  employed  at  the 
Gresley  works." 

"I  do  want  a  chauffeur,"  replied  the  warrior 
on  the  hearthrug;  "but  how  am  I  to  know  that 
you  will  do,  my  man?" 

"If  you  care  to  go  and  put  any  part  of  the 
machinery  out  of  order,  I  will  undertake  to  put 
it  right  again;  and  after  that  I  could  take  you 
for  a  run  in  the  car." 

This  sounded  direct  and  business-like,  and 
pleased  the  captain,  and,  incidentally,  the  cap- 
tain's daughter. 

"Well,  that's  fair  enough.  Go  and  have  some- 
thing to  eat  now,  and  after  that  you  can  take 
Miss  Lottingar  and  myself  for  a  spin.  By  the 
way,  what's  your  name?" 

"John  Armstrong  —  sir!"  said  Pip.  (He  was 
always  forgetting  that  word.) 


THE   PRINCIPAL  BOY  261 

"Have  you  any  references?" 

"No." 

"Could  you  get  any?" 

"I  might,  but  I'd  rather  not." 

The  captain  regarded  this  blunt  young  man 
curiously.  He  possessed  no  references  himself, 
and  he  moved  in  a  class  of  society  where  such 
things  were  regarded  with  pious  horror.  Pip 
rather  attracted  him. 

"  Never  mind  them  at  present,"  he  said,  ring- 
ing the  bell.  "If  you  can  handle  the  car  you  will 
suit  me.  If  you  can't,  you  are  worth  nothing,  and 
you'll  get  nothing.  Would  you  be  willing  to  do 
odd  jobs  as  well?" 

"Certainly." 

The  butler  appeared. 

"Howard,"  said  the  captain,  "take  this  man 
and  give  him  something  to  eat  in  the  steward's 
room,  and  let  me  see  him  again  at  three  o'clock." 

Mr.  Howard,  looking  particularly  benevolent, 
led  Pip  away,  and  Captain  Lottingar  was  left 
alone  with  his  daughter. 

"He'll  do,  Lottie,  I  think,"  he  said  carelessly. 

"M'  yes  —  he'll  do,"  said  Lottie. 

Her  father  turned  round. 

"You  don't  seem  quite  sure.  What  is  it?" 

"Nothing.   I'm  sure  enough.  Take  him." 

So  the  bargain  was  concluded,  and  Pip  found 
himself  engaged  as  chauffeur  to  Captain  Cuth- 


262        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

bert  Lottingar  (regiment  unknown),  of  Broadoak 
Manor,  Great  Stileborough,  Herts. 

But  Lottie  was  not  sure.  She  had  observed 
one  fact  which  had  escaped  her  usually  astute 
parent,  and  that  was  that  the  new  chauffeur  was 
a  gentleman  —  and,  as  such,  a  suspicious  char- 
acter. An  ordinary  mechanical  mechanic  would 
have  been  harmless;  but  a  gentleman  was  a 
superfluity,  and  therefore  a  source  of  danger. 
But  Lottie  hesitated  to  comment  on  the  fact. 
Wisdom  said,  "Take  no  risks";  feminine  curi- 
osity said,  "Chance  it!"  Lottie  chanced  it,  not 
for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  womankind. 

ii 

However  dubious  the  impression  wrhich  the 
new  chauffeur  had  made  upon  Miss  Lottingar, 
it  is  only  fair  to  state  that  the  impression  made 
by  Miss  Lottingar  and  her  gallant  papa  upon 
the  new  chauffeur  was  more  dubious  still.  Pip, 
who  was  not  an  expert  where  women  were  con- 
cerned, —  only  an  enthusiastic  amateur,  —  made 
a  mental  note  that  Lottie  "looked  a  good  sort, 
and  was  a  rare  pretty  girl."  Being  less  biassed 
and  more  experienced  in  regard  to  his  own  sex, 
he  was  nearer  the  mark  in  his  estimate  of  her 
father.  The  fact  that  Lottie's  complexion  was 
not  entirely  her  own  was  unrevealed  to  him,  but 
he  did  not  fail  to  write  down  Captain  Lottingar 


THE   PRINCIPAL  BOY  263 

as  a  "bounder."  He  observed  that  his  employer, 
though  he  carefully  pronounced  "here"  "heah," 
not  infrequently  called  "nothing"  "nothink"; 
and  Pip  still  possessed  enough  regard  for  the 
fetishes  of  his  youth  to  be  conscious  of  a  thrill 
of  positive  horror  at  the  spectacle  of  a  man  who 
wore  brown  boots  with  a  top-hat  on  Sunday. 

Various  guests  visited  Broadoak,  —  gentlemen 
with  waxed  mustaches  and  loud  garments,  — 
most  of  whom  appeared  to  be  intimate  friends 
of  Lottie's.  They  shot  Captain  Lottingar's  rab- 
bits by  day,  with  indifferent  success,  and  played 
cards  most  of  the  night.  Much  the  most  inter- 
esting of  the  guests,  however,  was  the  gentleman 
heretofore  referred  to  as  "the  Honourable."  He 
was  more  than  a  guest  at  Broadoak,  —  he  was 
almost  one  of  the  family.  Captain  Lottingar 
slapped  him  on  the  back  and  called  him  "my 
boy";  Captain  Lottingar's  friends  addressed  him 
with  admiring  deference  and  borrowed  money 
from  him;  and  Miss  Lottingar  behaved  to  him 
in  a  manner  which  left  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of 
casual  observers  as  to  the  state  of  her  affections. 

The  Honourable  himself  was  a  pleasant  but  dis- 
sipated-looking youth  of  about  two-and-twenty. 
His  stature  was  small,  and  his  attainments,  be- 
yond those  indigenous  to  every  well-born  and 
well-bred  young  Englishman,  insignificant;  but 
his  appreciation  of  the  pleasures  of  life  was 


264        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

great.  He  was  a  good  specimen  of  that  type  of 
young  man  but  for  whom  chorus-girls  would 
be  compelled  to  pay  for  their  own  diamonds. 
Pending  the  arrival  of  the  time  when  he  would  be 
called  upon  to  assume  the  office  of  an  hereditary 
legislator,  he  was  engaged  in  what  he  called  "see- 
ing life."  He  did  not  see  much,  though  he 
thought  he  did,  for  his  field  of  vision  was  limited; 
but  what  he  saw  he  saw  thoroughly.  He  enter- 
tained a  great  admiration  for  Captain  Lottingar, 
whom  he  had  encountered  at  a  flashy  club  in 
town;  and  any  fleeting  doubts,  derived  from  the 
hints  of  experienced  and  officious  friends,  which 
he  might  have  entertained  as  to  the  genuineness 
of  that  warrior's  pretensions  to  gentility  were  at 
once  set  at  rest  when  he  arrived,  in  response  to  a 
pressing  invitation,  on  a  visit  to  "my  old  place  in 
Hertfordshire."  A  ripening  friendship  with  the 
Principal  Boy  was  now  turning  his  admiration 
for  the  name  of  Lottingar  into  positive  infatua- 
tion; and  altogether  the  Honourable  Reginald 
Fitznorton  was  in  that  condition  usually  de- 
scribed as  "ready  for  plucking." 

Pip,  who  did  not  as  a  rule  concern  himself  over- 
much with  his  neighbours'  affairs,  soon  became 
conscious  of  a  distinct  feeling  of  curiosity  in  re- 
gard to  his  present  surroundings.  Captain  Lot- 
tingar one  day  mentioned  to  the  Honourable  in 
his  hearing  that  the  family  of  Lottingar  had  in- 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  265 

habited  Broadoak  Manor,  without  intermission, 
from  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  —  a  state- 
ment which  Pip  found  rather  hard  to  reconcile 
with  the  fact  that  there  lay  in  the  garage  at  the 
back  of  the  house  a  notice-board,  showing  every 
sign  of  having  been  recently  uprooted  from  the 
grassplot  by  the  front  gate,  inscribed  with  the 
simple  legend  "To  LET."  Moreover,  one  after- 
noon, while  exploring  the  numerous  passages  in 
the  house  in  search  of  the  Principal  Boy's  fox- 
terrier,  which  he  had  been  bidden  to  catch  and 
wash,  Pip  made  the  discovery  that,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  dining-room,  library,  kitchens,  hall 
and  a  few  bedrooms,  Broadoak  Manor  was  a  war- 
ren of  empty  rooms  destitute  of  furniture, 
though  a  few  of  the  more  conspicuous  windows 
were  furnished  with  curtains. 

His  fellow-menials  also  were  a  curiosity- 
inspiring  crew.  The  establishment,  besides  How- 
ard, consisted  of  a  not  unattractive  middle-aged 
female  who  cooked;  a  beetle-browed  individual 
named  Briggs,  the  keeper,  who,  though  inclined 
to  be  reticent  on  matters  connected  with  that 
exotic  biped,  the  pheasant,  was  a  mine  of  infor- 
mation on  worldly  topics,  and  a  perfect  ency- 
clopaedia of  reference  in  regard  to  horse-racing; 
and  a  pretty  but  pert  maid,  who  made  eyes  at 
Pip,  and  once,  in  a  moment  of  inadvertence,  ad- 
dressed the  saintly  Howard  as  "Pa."  All  were 


266        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

on  the  best  of  terms,  and  sat  down  to  poker  in 
the  evening  with  a  regularity  and  cheerfulness 
which  convinced  the  inexperienced  Pip  either 
that  servants'  halls  were  not  what  he  had  imag- 
ined them  to  be,  or  that  adversity  had  landed 
him  in  a  very  shady  establishment. 

However,  he  discovered  one  refreshing  and  self- 
evident  truth  in  this  home  of  mystery.  There 
was  no  doubting  the  fact  that  the  Honourable's 
courtship  of  Miss  Lottingar  (or  Miss  Lottingar's 
courtship  of  the  Honourable,  if  you  happened  to 
live  on  the  other  side  of  the  curtain)  was  fast 
maturing  to  a  definite  conclusion.  On  numerous 
motor  excursions  Pip  found  himself  compelled  to 
combine  with  his  duties  as  chauffeur  the  highly 
necessary  but  embarrassing  role  of  gooseberry. 
Occasionally  Miss  Lottingar  attempted  to  drive 
the  car  herself,  but  as  a  rule  Pip  had  entire  charge, 
the  young  people  sitting  together  in  close  com- 
panionship in  the  tonneau  behind.  Occasionally 
the  car  would  be  stopped,  and  Pip  would  be 
kindly  bidden  to  smoke  his  pipe,  what  time  the 
Honourable  escorted  Miss  Lottingar  into  a  neigh- 
bouring plantation,  to  watch  hypothetical  pheas- 
ants feeding;  or  Miss  Lottingar  took  the  Honour- 
able up  a  by-path,  to  show  him  a  view  which  had 
sprung  into  existence  within  the  last  five  minutes. 

Pip,  simple  soul,  knew  nothing  and  cared  less 
about  the  gentle  art  of  husband-hunting.  He 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  267 

felt  himself  irresistibly  drawn  towards  this  young 
couple.  He  abandoned  himself  to  sentimental 
sympathy,  and  drove  his  car  or  smoked  his  pipe 
with  his  eyes  fixed  resolutely  before  him,  thinking 
of  Elsie  and  wondering  if  his  own  turn  would  ever 
come. 

One  day,  as  they  were  returning  from  a  long 
afternoon's  spin,  the  car  suddenly  slowed  down 
to  a  stop,  and  with  the  complete  and  maddening 
finality  of  its  kind  refused  to  move  another  inch. 
Pip  divested  himself  of  his  coat  and  disappeared 
beneath  the  vehicle,  emerging  after  a  brief  supine 
scrutiny  to  announce  that  the  necessary  repairs 
would  involve  the  assistance  of  a  blacksmith  and 
take  an  hour  and  a  half  to  execute.  The  couple 
received  this  announcement  with  marked  com- 
posure, and  left  Pip  to  wrestle  with  the  car, 
merely  bidding  him  call  for  them  at  the  "  George" 
at  Lindley,  two  miles  ahead,  on  his  way  home. 

It  was  dark  by  the  time  that  the  united  efforts 
of  Pip  and  the  blacksmith  restored  the  car  to  a 
state  of  kinetic  energy,  and  it  was  more  than  two 
hours  before  Pip  called  at  the  "George*'  for  his 
passengers.  They  climbed  swiftly  into  the  ton- 
neau,  and  the  car  proceeded  on  its  way.  His 
charges  were  unusually  silent,  and  Pip,  turning 
suddenly  to  ask  for  a  direction,  surprised  the 
Honourable  in  the  act  of  kissing  the  Principal 
Boy's  hands. 


268        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

The  Honourable  departed  next  morning  for 
London.  In  the  afternoon  the  car  was  ordered 
round,  and  Miss  Lottie  announced  her  intention 
of  receiving  a  driving-lesson.  Pip  instructed  her 
to  the  best  of  his  ability,  and  by  constant  vigi- 
lance and  the  occasional  intervention  of  Provi- 
dence succeeded  in  indefinitely  prolonging  the 
span  of  life  of  two  old  women,  one  cow,  seven 
children,  and  innumerable  cocks  and  hens. 

Presently  it  began  to  rain. 

"Never  mind  about  putting  up  the  hood, 
Armstrong, "said Lottie.  "It's  a  rotten  affair — • 
keeps  no  rain  out.  Let's  run  under  those  thick 
trees  over  there." 

Pip  took  the  wheel,  and  the  car  slid  up  a  nar- 
row lane  and  came  to  anchor  under  the  thickest 
part  of  an  arching  grove  of  chestnuts. 

"There,"  said  the  Principal  Boy,  removing  her 
gloves,  "I  feel  regularly  done  up.  My  hands  are 
all  of  a  shake  after  that  beastly  wheel.  Am  I 
improving?" 

"You  are  a  good  deal  steadier  than  you  were 
—  Miss,"  said  Pip. 

"That's  all  right.  Much  obliged  for  your  help. 
You're  a  good  sort,  Armstrong." 

"Armstrong"  turned  extremely  pink. 

"Look  here,"  continued  Lottie  breezily,  "I'm 
tired  of  calling  you  Armstrong.  What's  your 
name?" 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  269 

"Er-John." 

"Right-o!  I  shall  call  you  Jack.  And  now, 
Jack,  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  What  are 
you  doing  driving  a  motor-car?" 

"Jack"  regarded  his  mistress  with  some  appre- 
hension. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  drive  a  motor-car?"  he 
asked,  rather  defiantly. 

"Why?  Because  you're  a  gentleman.  Bless 
you,  dear  boy,  do  you  think  I  did  n't  spot  that 
long  ago?  What  was  it  —  debts?" 

"Debts"  seemed  to  meet  the  requirements 
of  the  situation  without  unduly  straining  the 
truth,  so  Pip  nodded. 

"Ah!"  said  Miss  Lottingar  sympathetically; 
"I  know.  We  have  been  that  way  all  our  lives 
in  our  family." 

Pip  thought  of  Broadoak  Manor  and  its  pres- 
ent proprietor,  and  felt  no  surprise. 

"Dad  has  lived  on  his  wits  ever  since  I  can 
remember,"  continued  Miss  Lottingar.  "I  sup- 
pose you  see  what  sort  of  a  customer  he  is?"  she 
added,  in  a  sudden  burst  of  candour. 

Pip  nodded  again.   "I  think  I  do,"  he  said. 

"He's  a  game  old  chap,  is  Dad,"  continued  the 
dutiful  daughter,  "but  he's  on  the  lowest  peg 
at  present.  However,  I  landed  the  Honourable 
last  night,  so  things  ought  to  look  up  now." 

Pip,  who  regarded  the  love  of  a  man  for  a  maid 


270        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

as  something  rather  more  sacred  than  honour 
itself,  fairly  gasped  at  this  offhand  remark. 

"You  mean  —  you  are  engaged  to  him?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Principal  Boy  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone.  "He  asked  me  last  night  at  the 
'George,'  when  you  were  tinkering  at  the  car." 

"Oh!   Congratulations!"  said  Pip  awkwardly. 

"Thanks.  But  all  the  hard  work  has  to  come 
yet." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"We've  landed  him.  Now  we  have  to  skin 
him!" 

After  this  somewhat  unfeeling  reference  to 
her  intended,  Miss  Lottie  sat  silent,  evidently 
wondering  whether  her  sudden  liking  for  the 
quiet  chauffeur  had  not  caused  her  to  be  a  little 
indiscreet. 

Presently  Pip  said  — 

"I  suppose  he  has  gone  to  London  to  tell  his 
father?" 

"The  Earl?  Not  much.  I  made  Fitz  promise 
to  avoid  the  old  man  till  I  gave  him  leave.  He 
has  gone  up  to  town  for  the  engagement  ring. 
When  he  gets  back  to-morrow  he  is  going  to 
write  and  tell  him  everything.  That  will  bring 
his  lordship  down  here  double-quick,  and  we'll 
settle  everything  in  one  fair,  square,  up-and-down 
scrap."  Miss  Lottingar  almost  smacked  her  lips. 

"Will  the  Earl  object,  then?" 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  271 

"Object?   My  dear  boy,  look  at  me!" 

Pip  looked.  He  saw  a  pair  of  bold  black  eyes, 
a  very  red  and  entrancing  mouth,  a  retrousse 
nose,  an  alluringly  dimpled  chin,  and  a  good 
deal  of  glinting  coppery  hair.  Individually  these 
features  were  distinctly  attractive,  but  there 
was  something  about  the  tout  ensemble  that  sup- 
plied an  immediate  answer  to  the  owner's  ex- 
tremely frank  question. 

"You'll  know  me  again,"  said  Miss  Lottingar, 
rather  faintly. 

"Beg  your  pardon,"  said  Pip,  ungluing  his 
gaze  with  a  jerk.  "Bad  habit  I've  got.  Yes, 
perhaps  he  will  object." 

"I  should  think  so.  'Fast  girl  —  shady  father 
—  with  all  their  goods  in  the  shop  window!' 
That's  what  the  old  man  will  see,  if  he's  the 
least  bit  less  of  a  fool  than  his  son." 

"But,"  said  Pip,  "won't  he  consent  if  he  sees 
that  you  really  —  care  for  each  other?" 

"Afraid  he  won't  see  that,"  said  Miss  Lottin- 
gar composedly. 

Pip  stared. 

"You  mean  you  don't  really  care  for  Fitznor- 
ton  at  all?"  he  said. 

"My  dear  boy,  have  you  seen  him?"  inquired 
Lottie  plaintively. 

"Yes.  But  —  why  on  earth  are  you  going  to 
marry  him?" 


273        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"I'm  not  quite  certain  that  I  am,"  said  the 
Principal  Boy  coolly. 

"But  you  said  you  were." 

"I  said  I  was  engaged  to  him." 

"Sorry!  I  had  an  idea  it  was  the  same  thing," 
said  Pip. 

Lottie  gazed  at  him,  not  without  a  certain 
admiration. 

"Not  quite,"  she  said.  "You're  a  simple  old 
chap,  Jack,  but  I  like  you  for  it;  so  I'll  tell 
you  what  we  are  going  to  do.  When  the  Earl 
comes  down  here  —  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
I  expect  —  Dad  and  I  will  interview  him.  Fitz 
won't  be  there:  I  shall  send  him  out  into  the 
woods  to  chase  rabbits.  Then  we  shall  point  out 
to  the  old  dear  that  if  the  engagement  is  not 
permitted  my  heart  will  be  broken." 

"Oh!" 

"You  see?" 

"I  begin  to.   What  will  it  cost  to  repair  it?" 

"A  hundred  thousand  pounds." 

"You  value  your  heart  at  rather  a  high  fig- 
ure." 

"He  can  afford  the  money:  it's  a  mere  flea- 
bite  to  him.  He  is  one  of  the  richest  men  in 
England." 

"Well?" 

"If  he  agrees,  I  sign  a  paper  renouncing  all 
claim  to  Fitz.  The  Earl  writes  a  cheque,  takes 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  273 

Fitz  home  in  a  bandbox,  and  Dad  is  on  his  legs 
again.  That's  all." 

"Suppose  the  Earl  does  n't  agree?" 

"He  will.  It  will  be  a  pill  for  him,  but  he 
does  n't  want  the  family  name  dragged  through 
the  law  courts." 

"But  suppose?" 

"Well,  if  he  does,  we  are  ready  for  him.  If  he 
ab-so-lute-ly  refuses,  I  go  to  the  front  door, 
whistle  up  Fitz,  pop  him  into  this  motor,  skim 
off  to  Lindley,  and  get  married  by  special  licence. 
Fitz  has  agreed,  and  has  the  licence  in  his  pocket 
now.  Then  I  shall  have  an  even  stronger  card 
to  play  —  do  you  see?" 

"Afraid  not.  Too  deep  for  me." 

"Well,  once  we're  legally  married,  the  old 
chap  will  find  that  as  a  real  wife  I  am  far  more 
expensive  to  get  rid  of  than  before." 

"Get  rid  of?" 

"Yes.  He  would  n't  think  of  admitting  me  to 
his  almighty  family  circle.  He  would  have  to  ask 
now  what  I  would  take  to  live  apart  from  Fitz." 

"Live  apart?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you'd  agree?" 

"For  two  hundred  thousand  —  yes." 

"My  word!   You'd  leave  your  husband?" 

"Yes.  You  don't  suppose  I  want  to  spend  all 
my  days  with  an  image  like  Fitz,  do  you?" 


274        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

Lottie  threw  herself  back  petulantly  in  her 
seat.  Presently  Pip  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Don't!"  said  he. 

"Don't  what?" 

"Don't  be  drawn  into  this  affair." 

"Why  not?  Seems  to  me  I'm  in  it  pretty 
thick  already." 

"You  could  break  it  off  —  at  once.  It  would 
be  the  kindest  thing  to  do." 

"It  would  be  a  blamed  silly  thing  to  do,"  said 
Miss  Lottingar  frankly. 

"Do  you  care  for  him  at  all?" 

"Fitz?   Not  a  rap." 

"But  —  do  you  like  him?" 

"Oh,  yes!   He's  a  decent  little  sort." 

"Well,  just  think  what  it  would  mean  to  him 
if  he  married  you,  and  then  —  found  out." 

"Um!"  said  Miss  Lottie  thoughtfully. 

"Besides,"  continued  Pip,  following  up  his 
advantage,  "think  of  yourself." 

"I  usually  do,"  said  Lottie. 

"  Women  were  never  meant  for  that  low-down 
sort  of  game,"  said  Pip,  getting  to  the  heart  of 
his  subject. 

Suddenly  Lottie  blazed  out. 

"There  you  go!  Women,  women,  women! 
I  wonder  if  there  was  ever  a  man  in  this  world 
that  could  treat  a  woman  sensibly.  Some  men 
—  most  men  —  look  upon  women  as  fair  game, 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  275 

and  treat  them  accordingly.  The  others  —  men 
like  you  —  look  on  them  as  little  pot  angels,  and 
shudder  when  they  show  they  are  made  of  flesh 
and  blood.  Women  are  human  beings,  no  better 
and  no  worse  than  men,  only  they  don't  get  the 
chances  men  do,  Jack.  That 's  all  —  human  be- 
ings! Remember  that." 

"It's  a  hard  world  for  women,  I  know,"  said 
Pip,  rather  staggered  by  this  outburst.  "But 
some  good  chap  is  bound  to  come  along  and  — 
er  —  make  you  happy,  and  all  that.  Has  n't 
there  ever  been  —  anybody  of  that  kind?" 

"Lots." 

"None  you  cared  about,  perhaps?" 

"Not  one.  Well,  there  was  one.  Jim  Lister 
is  his  name.  He  is  assistant  stage-manager  at 
the  Crown  Theatre." 

"Well?"  said  Pip  hopefully. 

"I  —  I  liked  him  well  enough,  but  we  should 
always  have  been  poor  —  awfully  poor  —  and  —  " 

"If  a  couple  are  really  fond  of  each  other, 
nothing  else  matters  a  damn,"  said  Pip,  with 
conviction.  "Sorry!  I  mean  you  might  do 
worse." 

Lottie  rounded  on  him. 

"There  you  go  again.  *  Might  do  worse!'  'Be 
thankful  for  small  mercies!'  It's  a  rotten  game 
being  a  woman,  Jack.  You  are  a  man  and  can't 
understand.  But  if  you  'd  had  as  hard  a  time  as 


276        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

I  have,  —  yes,  and  if  you  'd  seen  half  as  much 
of  this  world  as  I  have,  —  you  'd  be  gentler  with 
me,  Jack/' 

Certainly  the  conversation  was  taking  an  un- 
expected turn.  Pip  was  completely  out  of  his 
depth.  Ten  minutes  ago  he  had  been  a  re- 
spectful chauffeur,  teaching  a  rather  flamboyant 
young  mistress  how  to  drive  a  car.  Now  he  was 
sitting  by  the  selfsame  young  mistress,  holding 
her  arm  in  a  friendly  fashion,  and  talking  to  her 
as  an  elder  brother  might  talk  to  a  petulant 
child. 

The  irregularity  of  the  situation  apparently 
struck  Miss  Lottingar  at  the  same  moment,  for, 
with  one  of  those  swift  and  characteristically 
feminine  changes  of  mood  which  leave  mere  man 
toiling  helplessly  behind  in  the  trammels  of  logi- 
cal consistency,  she  abruptly  released  her  arm,  ob- 
served brightly  that  the  rain  had  ceased,  won- 
dered if  it  would  n't  turn  out  a  fine  evening  after 
all,  and  bade  Armstrong  drive  home  as  fast  as 
possible. 

in 

The  Honourable  Reginald  Fitznorton  was  due 
back  at  four  o'clock  next  afternoon.  The  motor 
was  ordered  round,  and  Pip  drove  Lottie  to  the 
station  to  meet  him.  Lottie,  who  was  looking 
pale  and  not  quite  herself,  declined  to  sit  in  the 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  277 

tonneau,  and  accompanied  Pip  on  the  front  seat. 
In  spite  of  the  facilities  for  conversation  afforded 
by  this  position  she  said  little;  and  Pip,  whose 
repertory  of  conversational  openings  was  not  ex- 
tensive, said  nothing  at  all.  Besides,  he  was  not 
certain  whether  he  was  to  be  treated  to-day  as 
a  big  brother  or  as  a  chauffeur. 

Had  he  been  a  more  observant  big  brother  or 
a  less  diligent  chauffeur  he  might  have  noticed 
that  from  time  to  time  he  was  being  favoured 
by  his  mistress  with  a  sidelong  scrutiny  of  some 
intensity.  Being  Pip,  he  saw  nothing.  One  act 
of  hers  might  have  afforded  him  a  good  deal  of 
information  had  he  desired  it.  When  the  car, 
which  had  started  late,  rounded  the  last  corner 
on  the  way  to  the  station,  there  appeared  in  the 
offing  no  less  a  person  than  the  Honourable  him- 
self, bag  in  hand,  and  diffusing  happiness  around 
him.  Suddenly  Pip  became  conscious  of  some- 
thing. The  girl  at  his  side  seemed  to  shrink  up 
to  him,  and  for  a  moment  her  hand  travelled 
towards  his  as  if  for  protection.  An  instant 
later  she  was  leaning  back  in  her  seat,  smilingly 
dipping  an  answering  pennant  to  the  frenzied 
signals  of  her  rapidly  approaching  swain. 

The  car  slowed  down  to  a  stop.  Miss  Lot- 
tingar  stepped  out,  and  was  received  by  her  en- 
raptured lover,  regardless  of  Pip's  presence, 
with  a  smacking  salute  that  fairly  drowned  the 


278        THE   MAKING  OF  A   MAN 

noise  of  the  engine.  After  that  the  happy  couple 
entered  the  tonneau,  and  Pip,  with  eyes  rigidly 
turned  to  the  front,  heard  little  and  saw  noth- 
ing of  them  throughout  the  drive  home. 

As  the  Principal  Boy  had  confidently  predicted, 
the  Right  Honourable  the  Earl  of  Cartavon  ar- 
rived at  Broadoak  Manor  at  lunch-time  next  day. 
The  inmates  of  that  venerable  pile  were  ready 
for  him.  Howard,  looking  like  a  retired  arch- 
bishop, received  him  at  the  door,  and  Captain 
Lottingar,  in  tweeds  and  gaiters,  greeted  him  in 
the  library.  His  lordship  was  affably  informed 
that,  in  consequence  of  recent  surprising  and  joy- 
ful disclosures  by  the  young  folk,  his  visit  was  not 
altogether  unexpected;  and  that  if  he  would  join 
the  house-party  at  luncheon,  the  business  on 
which  he  had  come  down  might  be  comfortably 
discussed  over  a  cigar  in  the  library  afterwards. 

This  much  was  retailed  in  the  servants'  hall 
by  Howard,  whose  well-formed  ears  had  missed 
little  or  nothing  of  the  dialogue  in  the  library, 
even  in  a  filtered  form.  Mr.  Briggs  opined,  amid 
general  approval,  that  "the  Captain  and  the  gal 
between  them  could  bleed  the  old  toff  proper." 

After  lunch  the  Honourable  emerged  from  the 
front  door,  armed  only  with  a  walking-stick,  and 
set  out  briskly,  apparently  on  a  country  walk. 
At  the  same  time  word  was  sent  to  Pip  that 
the  motor  would  be  required  at  three. 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  279 

Punctually  to  time  he  ran  the  car  up  the 
broad  avenue,  passing  the  library  windows  on  the 
way.  He  was  conscious  of  a  group  of  three  round 
the  fire,  —  it  was  a  chilly  day  in  late  September, 
—  and  he  wondered  how  the  process  of  bleeding 
was  getting  on. 

The  car  and  its  driver  stood  before  the  front 
door  for  more  than  an  hour.  It  was  after  four 
when  the  front  door  suddenly  opened,  and  Lottie, 
banging  it  behind  her,  hurriedly  descended  the 
steps.  She  slipped  up  beside  Pip. 

"Start  off,"  she  said  —  "quick!" 

Pip  got  down  and  set  the  engine  going. 

"Where  to?  "he  inquired. 

"Anywhere!"  said  Lottie  in  a  choking  voice, 
"anywhere!  But  get  started." 

Pip  sprang  up  into  his  place  and  took  the 
wheel.  The  great  car  ceased  vibrating  and  be- 
gan to  creep  forward.  Suddenly  it  gave  a  mighty 
plunge,  and  sped  down  the  avenue. 

At  the  same  moment  Captain  Lottingar,  look- 
ing anything  but  a  country  gentleman,  and  furi- 
ously angry,  threw  open  the  library  window  and 
bawled  to  Pip  to  stop.  But  the  louder  he  bawled 
and  the  more  thoroughly  he  blasphemed  the 
faster  the  car  shot  down  the  drive. 

Lord  Cartavon  sat  stiffly  in  a  high-backed 
chair  by  the  fire. 

"I  should  n't  trouble  if  I  were  you,  Captain 


280       THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

—  er  —  Lottingar,"  he  said.  "She  won't  come 
back." 

Captain  Lottingar  banged  down  the  window, 
and,  returning  to  his  favourite  position  on  the 
hearthrug,  summed  up  his  daughter's  character 
in  terms  which  would  have  been  excessive  if 
applied  to  Jezebel  herself. 

The  Earl  stood  up. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your 
hospitality.  I  will  walk  to  the  station  now,  and 
catch  the  five-thirty  train  back  to  town.  I  pre- 
sume, after  what  has  just  happened,  that  we  may 
regard  this  incident  as  closed.  And  let  me  tell 
you,  Mr.  Lottingar,"  the  old  gentleman  added, 
turning  on  his  heel  as  he  opened  the  door,  "that 
Miss  Lottingar  is  a  d — — d  sight  too  good  a 
daughter  for  such  a  shark  as  yourself." 

After  he  had  gone,  Captain  Lottingar  kicked  a 
valuable  Japanese  fire-screen  (for  which  he  had 
not  paid)  round  the  room. 

IV 

On  clearing  the  lodge-gates  Pip  turned  the 
car  to  the  left,  and  they  spun  down  the  London 
road.  For  an  hour  they  travelled,  sometimes 
slowing  through  a  village  or  changing  gear  up 
a  hill,  but  usually  running  at  top  speed,  rolling 
up  the  miles  like  shavings  under  a  jack-plane. 
Pip  sat  gripping  his  wheel,  intent  on  his  work. 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  281 

Lottie,  rigid  and  upright  beside  him,  looked 
straight  before  her,  with  her  hands  clasped  tightly 
together  under  the  rug.  Occasionally  she  cast 
a  sidelong  glance  at  her  silent  companion. 

At  last,  when  they  had  covered  nearly  thirty 
miles,  Lottie  spoke. 

"Jack,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Stop  this 
machine  in  some  quiet  place.  That  beastly 
engine  makes  too  much  noise  for  me." 

Pip,  who  was  getting  used  to  these  wayside 
halts,  ran  the  car  up  the  next  opening  and 
stopped. 

Then  the  two  turned  and  regarded  each  other. 
A  glance  apprised  Pip  of  the  fact  that  he  was  to 
be  big  brother  again. 

"Well?  "he  said. 

"Jack,  I've  done  it  this  time." 

"Done  what?" 

"Upset  the  apple-cart.  Poor  old  Dad!  But 
I'd  do  it  again!" 

"How  did  you  do  it  the  first  time?"  said  Pip 
patiently. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  After  lunch,  Dad  and  I 
and  his  lordship  went  into  the  library.  We  all 
sat  down,  the  old  gentleman  very  stiff  and  up- 
right. He  had  hardly  given  me  a  glance  so  far, 
but  now  he  turned  and  looked  at  me.  I  felt 
pretty  small,  Jack.  I  can  hold  my  own  in  a  star- 
ing match  with  most  people,  but  that  proud  old 


282       THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

man  fairly  beat  me.  He  simply  looked  right 
through  me  at  the  cushion  my  head  was  lean- 
ing against.  By  the  way,  you  can  do  that  a  bit, 
too,  Jack.  It's  a  trick  some  men  have.  That's 
what  first  made  me  think  that  you  —  where 
was  I?" 

"In  the  library." 

"Oh,  yes.  Well,  at  last  the  old  man  turned  to 
Dad,  and  looked  at  him.  Dad  did  n't  half  like  it, 
I  could  see.  The  old  man  said  — 

"'I  understand  that  my  son  proposes  to  ally 
himself  with  —  er,  —  this  young  lady? ' 

"'Yes,'  said  Dad,  'he  does.' 

"'And  you  have  given  your  consent  to  the 
match?' 

'"Yes/  says  Dad,  as  solemn  as  a  judge;  'after 
due  consideration,  I  have.' 

"'Then  I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  once/  says 
his  lordship,  quite  briskly, '  that  I  am  utterly  and 
entirely  opposed  to  the  match,  and  will  never 
give  my  consent  to  it.' 

"There  was  a  little  silence,  and  we  all  three 
settled  down  in  our  chairs  as  much  as  to  say, 
'Now  we  are  really  getting  to  business.'  Pres- 
ently Dad  said, — 

'"I  am  afraid,  my  lord,  that  solemn  agree- 
ments of  this  kind  are  not  so  easily  broken.  Con- 
sider my  daughter's  feelings.' 

'"I  am  perfectly  willing  to  consider  her  feel- 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  283 

ings,  sir,'  says  the  old  gentleman,  with  a  little 
odd  bow.  Then  he  turned  to  me  and  said, — 

'"May  I  ask  a  direct  question?  Are  you  gen- 
tinely  attached  to  my  son?' 

"  I  wished  he  would  n't  keep  on  at  me  like  that. 
However,  I  had  to  keep  my  end  up,  so  I  said,  in 
a  sort  of  soft  voice,  'Yes.' 

"'Ah,'  said  he,  as  if  he  was  thinking.  Then 
Dad,  evidently  considering  we  were  wasting  time, 
put  in, — 

"'If  this  match  is  broken  off,  my  daughter's 
susceptibilities  must  be  solaced  in  a  very  sub- 
stantial manner.' 

"Then  the  old  gentleman  turned  and  looked 
Dad  through  and  through,  and  said,  'Ah!'  again, 
as  much  as  to  say,  'I  thought  so.' 

"'Well,'  he  said  at  last,  'how  much  do  you 
want?' 

"'/?'  says  Dad,  still  playing  the  game  — 
'nothing.  I  am  not  the  injured  party.  It  is  for 
my  poor  girl  to  say.' 

"The  Earl  looked  at  me.  I  took  a  big  breath, 
and  said,  'A  hundred  thousand  pounds.' 

"'You  value  your  heart  at  rather  a  high 
figure,  madam,'  says  he.  (Do  you  remember, 
those  were  the  very  words  you  used  to  me, 
Jack?)  Then  he  swings  round  to  Dad,  and 
says, — 

'"Of  course  this  is  preposterous.  I  am  willing 


284        THE   MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

to  pay  you  five  thousand  pounds,  to  extricate  my 
son  from  the  trap,  the  carefully  baited  trap'  — 
he  looked  all  round  the  room,  and  I  knew  he 
knew  everything  in  it  had  been  got  on  the  nod  — 
'into  which  he  has  fallen.  That  is  more  than  you 
would  get  out  of  the  most  impressionable  jury, 
and  I  advise  you  to  take  it,  Mr.  —  er  —  Lottin- 
gar.' 

"'Quite  true,  my  lord/  says  Dad.  'But  you 
know  you  'd  give  more  than  a  hundred  thousand 
to  keep  the  family  name  out  of  the  courts.  You 
don't  want  the  papers  to  get  hold  of  it.  "A 
Cabinet  Minister's  son  sued  for  Breach-of- 
Promise" — you  know  the  sort  of  stuff  —  and 
Lottie's  portrait  in  "The  Sketch.'" 

!"I  am  afraid  we  are  wasting  time,  Mr.  Lot- 
tingar,'  says  his  lordship.  '  If  your  daughter  will 
sign  a  document,  which  I  will  draw  up  for  her, 
renouncing  all  claims  to  my  son,  and  undertaking 
not  to  molest  him  for  the  future,  I  will  give  her 
a  cheque  for  five  thousand  pounds.  If  not,  I 
must  bid  you  good-afternoon.' 

'"A  hundred  thousand!'  says  Dad. 

"'I  think  you  are  acting  foolishly,'  says  the 
old  man,  getting  up.  'If  you  refuse  my  offer  I 
shall  go  up  to  town  now,  and  call  on  my  solicitor 
to-morrow  morning;  and  I  think  it  highly  prob- 
able, from  what  I  see  of  your  surroundings  here, 
and  from  what  I  know  of  your  antecedents  al- 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  285 

ready,  that  I  shall  be  able  to  make  it  exceedingly 
risky  for  you  to  face  the  publicity  of  the  law 
courts  in  any  capacity  whatsoever.  In  fact,  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  you  had  to  leave  the 
country.' 

"My  word,  Jack,  he  was  fine!  He  dropped 
each  word  out  of  his  mouth  like  a  little  lump 
of  ice.  But  old  Dad  stood  up  to  him.  He  simply 
chuckled. 

"'No,  no,  my  lord,  it  won't  do,'  he  said.  'I 
have  laid  my  plans  farther  ahead  than  you  think. 
Now,  look  here.  If  you  don't  sign  that  little 
cheque  I'm  asking  for,  Lottie  here  will  walk 
straight  out  of  this  house,  take  her  motor,  pick 
up  your  son,  who  is  waiting  for  her  at  the  road- 
side this  minute,  and  drive  straight  to  Lindley, 
where  they  will  be  married  by  special  licence  this 
very  afternoon.  Your  son  has  got  that  licence 
in  his  pocket  now.  And  when  the  two  are  firmly 
tied  up,  you'll  realise  two  things,  my  lord,  — 
first,  that  it 's  hardly  the  thing  to  rake  up  the  past 
life  of  your  daughter-in-law's  father;  and  sec- 
ondly, that  a  wife  is  a  deal  more  expensive  to  buy 
off  than  a  fiancee.' 

"After  that  there  was  a  very  long  pause.  Dad 
was  top  dog  again,  and  the  old  Earl  was  think- 
ing it  out.  Suddenly  he  turned  to  me.  He  said, — 

"'You  say  my  son  has  a  special  licence  in  his 
pocket?' 


286        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"'  Yes,'  I  said. 

"'And  you  have  asked  him  to  wait  by  the 
roadside  for  you  this  afternoon,  in  case  of  — 
contingencies?' 

"'Yes.' 

'"You  must  possess  great  influence  over  him.' 

"'She  does/  says  Dad,  before  any  one  else 
could  speak. 

"The  old  man  took  not  the  slightest  notice, 
but  went  on  talking  to  me. 

"'If  you  married  my  son  you  would  demand 
a  large  sum  — ' 

"'Two  hundred  thousand  quid/  says  Dad. 
"You  would  demand  a  large  sum,'  goes  on  the 
Earl,  acting  as  if  he  and  I  were  alone  together, 
'  as  a  condition  of  your  living  apart  from  him  and 
refraining  from  molesting  him.   Would  you?' 

"The  words  began  to  stick  in  my  throat  a  bit, 
but  I  said, 'Yes.' 

"'I  think,'  he  went  on,  'that  you  told  me  just 
now  that  you  were  deeply  attached  to  my  son?' 

"This  time  I  just  nodded. 

"'Then  you  mean  to  say,'  he  says,  looking  at 
me  in  a  way  that  simply  made  me  feel  faint, '  that 
you  would  marry  a  young  man  whom  you  profess 
to  love,  and,  having  blackmailed  him  to  the 
fullest  possible  extent,  would  readily  consent  to 
live  apart  from  him,  leaving  him  prevented  by 
the  law  of  the  land  from  ever  taking  a  wife  of  his 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  287 

own  station  and  fulfilling  his  duty  to  society  and 
posterity,  so  long  as  you  remained  alive?  For  the 
sake  of  a  sum  of  money  you  would  deliberately 
wreck  the  life  of  a  foolish  but  good-hearted  young 
man,  who  has  paid  you  the  highest  honour  that  a 
man  can  pay  a  woman;  and  with  his  life  yov 
would  wreck  the  fortunes  of  an  ancient  and  hon- 
ourable house?  Would  you  do  that?" 

"His  face  was  like  iron,  Jack,  but  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes.  I  sat  gripping  the  arms  of  my 
chair.  Suddenly  Dad  struck  in, — 

"'Come,  come,  my  lord!  you  are  simply  wast- 
ing words.  Which  is  it  to  be?  Will  you  settle 
this  matter,  or  must  Lottie  take  the  final  step?' 

"The  old  man  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  me. 
And  then  suddenly  I  found  my  voice.  I  boiled 
over,  for  I  had  realised  at  last  what  an  awful 
thing  I  was  going  to  do  —  awful  for  him,  and 
awful  for  me.  Somehow  I  did  n't  feel  as  if  I  could 
back  Dad  any  longer.  It  flashed  across  me  what 
I  had  been  trying  to  do  —  sell  myself !  I  'm  not  a 
great  saint,  Jack,  but,  thank  God!  I  realised  in 
time  that  there  are  things  in  this  world  that 
money  can't  buy.  I  just  stood  up  and  said, — 

"'Dad,  it's  no  good.  I  simply  won't  do  this.  I 
can't  think  why  I  ever  consented.  I'm  sorry. 
I've  always  backed  you  up  to  now;  but  I'm  a 
decent  girl  after  all,  and  I  wont  do  this  —  I 
won't,  I  won't.* 


288       THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"Then  I  sat  down  and  cried  a  bit.  Dad  looked 
perfectly  flummoxed.  In  a  minute  I  had  dried  my 
eyes,  and  I  said  to  the  old  lord,  — 

"*Lord  Cartavon,  I  would  n't  marry  your  son 
if  you  begged  me  on  your  knees.  I  won't  marry 
a  man  I  don't  love,  so  I  won't  marry  him.  Keep 
your  cheque-book  in  your  pocket.  I  renounce  all 
claims  to  him  —  there!'" 

Lottie's  voice  broke  at  last. 

"Oh,  well  done!"  said  Pip  softly. 

"That's  just  what  the  old  lord  said,"  exclaimed 
the  girl,  turning  a  surprised  look  upon  him.  "  You 
both  seem  to  have  the  same  feelings." 

"Well,  what  happened  next?"  inquired  Pip. 

"Things  were  a  bit  mixed  after  that,"  said 
Lottie,  not  without  relish.  "There  was  a  great 
roar  like  thunder,  and  Dad  dashed  across  the 
room  at  me.  He  was  in  an  awful  passion.  He 
nearly  killed  me  once,  when  he  —  never  mind 
that.  But  the  old  Earl  just  stepped  in  front  of 
him  and  said,  'Gently,  sir,  gently!  there  is  a  lady 
present.'  Then  he  went  quickly  to  the  door  and 
opened  it,  and  gave  me  a  little  nod  to  go.  All  the 
time  he  was  holding  Dad's  arm  with  his  other 
hand.  I  walked  out,  and  the  old  man  bowed  to 
me  as  I  passed,  and  said,  very  gently,  'God  bless 
you,  young  lady!'  He  said  that  —  to  me!"  she 
reiterated  proudly,  turning  a  pair  of  shining  eyes 
on  Pip.  "Then  he  closed  it  behind  me  just  as 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  289 

Dad  broke  into  another  roar.  I  rushed  out  of  the 
house,  hopped  on  to  the  car,  and  here  we  are!" 


"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  in- 
quired practical  Pip. 

"I  don't  know.  I  daren't  go  back.  Dad 
would  kill  me." 

The  girl  shuddered,  and  turned  to  Pip  appeal- 
ingly,  as  a  woman,  however  strong  her  will  may 
be,  always  turns  to  a  man  she  knows  she  can 
trust. 

Pip  reflected  in  his  deliberate  fashion. 

"You  had  better  go  to  London,"  he  said  at 
last.  "You  know  your  way  about  there,  I  expect. 
I  think  you  should  go  on  the  stage  again.  You 
like  it,  and  it  will  make  you  independent.  I 
suppose  you  can  get  an  engagement?" 

"Yes,  I  can  manage  that,"  said  the  Principal 
Boy.  "Drive  on  now,  Jack,  and  take  me  to 
Hunsford  Station.  It  can't  be  more  than  a  mile 
or  two  from  here." 

Once  more  the  car  sped  through  the  gathering 
darkness. 

"  I  '11  go  round  to  the  *  Crown,' "  continued  Lot- 
tie more  briskly,  "first  thing  to-morrow  morning. 
Jim  Lister  will  get  me  a  shop  of  some  sort,  if  it's 
only  in  the  chorus.  That'll  do  to  go  on  with." 

"He  must  be  a  good  chap,"  said  Pip. 


290       THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"He  is,"  said  Lottie  warmly. 

Presently  they  reached  the  little  station. 
Inquiries  elicited  the  news  that  there  would  be 
a  train  for  London  in  half  an  hour. 

"I'll  stay  with  you  till  it  starts,"  said  Pip. 

He  ran  the  car  under  a  wall  out  of  the  wind, 
and  continued  talking.  He  was  in  an  unusually 
communicative  mood,  for  him. 

"I  was  wondering,"  he  said,  "why  your  feel- 
ings changed  so  suddenly  in  that  interview,  after 
you  had  quite  made  up  your  mind  to  —  for  the 
other  thing." 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  Lottie.  "I 
can't  think  now  what  made  me  agree  to  the  idea, 
even  for  a  moment.  Jack,  would  you  have 
thought  very  badly  of  me  if  — " 

"I  think  I  know  what  it  was,"  continued  Pip, 
who  had  been  following  his  own  train  of  thought; 
"you  must  have  been  kee — fond  of  somebody 
else  all  the  time,  fonder  than  you  really  knew, 
and  when  the  critical  moment  came,  the  thought 
of  —  of  him,  though  you  did  n't  know  it,  pre- 
vented you  from  making  yourself  cheap.  Is  that 
it?  Don't  answer  if  it  is  n't  a  fair  question." 

"Yes,  Jack,  it's  a  fair  question." 

"And  am  I  right?" 

There  was  a  silence.  Pip  saw  a  rather  strange 
look  settle  on  the  girl's  face.  Presently  she 
answered,  in  a  low  voice,  — 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  291 

"I  believe  you  are." 

"Then  why  not  —  go  to  him?" 

"Perhaps  —  perhaps  he  does  n't  want  me." 

"Are  you  sure?  Is  it  Jim  Lister?  " 

"No.   He's  a  good  boy,  but  it's  not  him." 

"Ah!  That's  a  pity." 

Another  pause.  Lottie  sat  very  still.  She 
understood  now  why  the  idea  of  marrying  the 
Honourable  had  become  suddenly  repugnant  to 
her.  The  reason  was  sitting  beside  her,  wonder- 
ing what  the  reason  could  be.  Lottie  excelled 
in  woman's  favourite  pastime  —  playing  with 
fire  —  but  this  time  she  had  burnt  her  fingers. 

Pip  talked  to  her  a  good  deal  during  the  next 
half -hour.  Once  he  said, — 

"I  wonder  what  made  you  confide  in  me  about 
all  this.  I  expect  it  was  because  you  spotted 
that  I  was  a  kindred  spirit  —  in  the  same  state 
as  yourself." 

"What  state?" 

"  In  love,"  said  Pip  simply. 

"In  love?  Who  with?"  asked  Lottie,  ungram- 
matically but  earnestly. 

"I'll  tell  you  if  you  like,"  said  Pip.  He 
launched  into  a  description  of  Elsie,  reciting  his 
hopes  and  fears  with  all  the  complete  abandon  of 
the  reticent  man  when  once  he  lets  himself  go. 

"It  is  n't  often,"  he  concluded,  descending  to 
earth  again,  "that  I  reveal  my  feelings  to  any- 


292        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

body.  But  I  suppose  things  are  rather  out  of 
the  common  to-day." 

"Does  she  care  for  you?" 

"I  don't  see  how  she  possibly  can,"  said  Pip, 
with  absolute  sincerity.  "But  I'm  going  to  ask 
her  for  all  that." 

"When?" 

"As  soon  as  I  get  on  my  legs  again  —  finan- 
cially." 

"Ah,  but  when  will  that  be?  Debts  are  awful 
millstones,  Jack." 

"Debts?  What?  Oh,  I  forgot.  Well,  they  are 
off." 

"How?" 

"This  morning,"  said  Pip,  "I  got  a  letter.  It 
was  from  old  Gresley,  the  head  of  the  Motor 
Works  where  I  am  employed.  His  son  used  to 
be  a  friend  of  mine  at  Cambridge.  The  old  man's 
letter  is  the  most  astonishing  affair.  He  offers 
to  take  me  into  partnership !  He  seems  to  —  to 
have  taken  a  sort  of  liking  for  me,"  he  added 
apologetically.  "Is  n't  it  like  a  fairy  tale?" 

(What  old  Gresley  had  said  was  this:  "Partly 
because  you  have  always  been  a  good  friend  to 
my  son,  but  chiefly  because  you  combine  first- 
class  mechanical  ability  with  sound  common 
sense  and  the  power  of  managing  men,  I  write  to 
ask  if  you  will  enter  the  firm  as  a  partner,  on 
equal  terms  with  Harry.  He  has  brains  and  you 


THE   PRINCIPAL  BOY  293 

have  ballast.  Between  you,  you  should  sweep 
the  board.  I  am  getting  old.  Once  the  business 
is  fairly  gripped  by  you,  I  shall  retire  and  leave 
you  to  run  the  show  together.  Give  up  your 
present  post  and  come  here  at  once,  so  that  we 
may  discuss  matters  more  fully  and  settle  de- 
tails.") 

"Then  you'll  be  rich  again?"  said  Lottie  won- 
deringly. 

"Well  enough  off,  at  any  rate,"  said  Pip,  "to 
go  and  have  it  out  — " 

"Wither?" 

"  Yes.  Here 's  your  train.  I  '11  get  your  ticket." 

Pip  put  the  Principal  Boy  into  an  empty  first- 
class  carriage,  and  having  shut  the  door  con- 
versed with  her  through  the  open  window.  The 
engine  gave  an  impatient  whistle,  but  the  line 
was  not  clear,  and  the  starting-signal  remained 
obstinately  red. 

"Got  any  money?"  said  Pip  awkwardly. 

"Yes,  thanks.   Enough  to  keep  me  going." 

The  train  still  delayed,  and  Pip  said, — 

"I  say,  will  you  take  my  advice?" 

"Depends  on  what  it  is." 

"Goto  Jim  Lister." 

"  Well — I  '11  see,"  said  the  girl  rather  brokenly. 
She  had  borne  up  bravely  till  now,  but  the  pros- 
pect of  parting  from  her  protector  and  the  coming 
plunge  into  the  unknown  were  telling  their  tale. 
Suddenly  she  looked  up. 


294        THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

"Jack,"  she  whispered,  "come  with  me!" 

The  two  gazed  at  each  other  steadily.  Never 
was  there  a  more  direct  invitation,  and  no  man 
knows  what  thoughts  passed  through  Pip's  heart, 
or  how  great  the  battle  that  was  fought  and  won 
during  that  brief  minute.  At  length  he  spoke. 

"I  am  still  your  father's  paid  servant,  and 
until  I  have  seen  him  and  thrown  up  my  billet 
I  must  stay  here." 

Lottie  bowed  her  head  submissively.  She  knew 
her  man. 

"But  I'll  tell  you  what,"  continued  Pip.  "To- 
morrow I  shall  be  in  town.  If  you  still  want 
help,  send  a  line  to  me  at  the  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge Club,  and  I'll  come  to  you." 

"You  promise?" 

"I  promise.  But  you  must  promise  not  to 
write  unless  you  really  need  me." 

Lottie,  a  little  mystified,  agreed. 

Suddenly  the  red  signal-light  turned  to  green. 
The  guard  at  the  rear  of  the  train  broke  off  an 
engrossing  conversation  with  the  only  porter, 
and  waved  his  lantern.  The  engine  gave  a  pre- 
liminary quiver. 

Lottie  and  Pip  shook  hands.  The  girl's  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.  Poor  Principal  Boy!  Kind- 
ness which  asked  for  nothing  in  return  had  been 
a  rarity  in  her  life.  Suddenly  she  said, — 

"Give  us  a  kiss,  Jack!" 


THE  PRINCIPAL  BOY  295 

Pip  complied,  with  a  satisfactory  thoroughness 
that  elicited  a  humorous  expostulation  from  the 
only  porter,  who  was  passing  by. 

"Good-bye!"  he  said.  "You'll  be  all  right 
when  you  get  to  King's  Cross." 

Which  cryptic  remark  was  the  last  he  ever 
addressed  to  the  Principal  Boy,  for  the  train 
glided  out  of  the  station,  and  he  never  saw  her 
again. 

Before  leaving  the  station  Pip  despatched  the 
following  telegram:  — 

Lister,  Crown  Theatre,  Strand,  London. 

Arriving  King's  Cross  7.30.  Can  you  meet  me? 
Want  help  badly. 

LOTTIE. 

The  following  morning,  having  discarded  his 
chauffeur's  attire  and  departed  from  Broadoak 
Manor,  after  listening  to  an  eloquent  and  most 
enjoyable  valedictory  address  from  its  tenant, 
Pip  returned  to  London.  At  the  end  of  a  highly 
satisfactory  interview  with  the  Gresleys  he 
turned  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  Club,  which  he  had  not  entered 
for  three  years. 

He  made  himself  known  to  those  in  authority, 
and  announced  that  he  had  now  returned  from 
"abroad."  He  then  asked  if  there  was  any 
letter  for  "Armstrong,"  which,  he  explained 


296       THE  MAKING  OF  A  MAN 

rather  lamely,  had  been  sent  him  under  that 
name,  "by  mistake." 

Yes,  there  was  a  note  left  by  a  messenger  that 
afternoon.  He  opened  it.  It  contained  a  single 
line  — 

All's  well;  and  we  thank  you  —  both  of  us! 

LOTTIE  LISTER. 


BOOK  THREE 
THE  JOURNEY'S  END 


CHAPTER  X 

AN  ANCIENT   GAME 
I 

SOMEWHERE  on  the  east  coast  of  Scotland  lie 
the  famous  Links  of  Eric.  The  district  has  not 
changed  much,  to  all  seeming,  during  the  last 
thousand  years  —  or  ten  thousand,  for  that 
matter.  Then,  as  now,  the  links  were  a  sandy 
waste,  a  wilderness  of  whin,  sand,  and  bent, 
the  home  of  countless  scuttling  rabbits  and 
plaintive  peewits.  Later,  perhaps,  when  William 
the  Conqueror  was  creating  a  disturbance  in  the 
southern  parts  of  remote  England,  a  tiny  fishing 
town  began  to  grow  up  round  the  little  harbour 
reluctantly  yielded  by  the  tall  red  cliffs  to  the 
eternal  industry  of  the  ocean,  and  the  adjoining 
strip  of  low-lying  sand-dunes  acquired  the  title 
that  it  now  bears,  derived,  it  is  said,  from  the 
name  of  the  Norse  king  who  once  landed  on 
this,  the  only  piece  of  accessible  shore  for  miles, 
and  was  there  slain,  after  a  bloody  battle  with  the 
neighbouring  lord  and  his  retainers.  The  town 
itself  will  have  none  of  these  barbaric  titles,  but 
exists  smugly  and  contentedly  as  Port  Allan. 

But  it  was  through  her  little-valued   links 


300  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

that  Port  Allan  achieved  fame.  Two  hundred 
years  ago  a  new  minister  came  from  St.  Andrew's, 
and  introduced  the  men  of  Port  Allan  to  a  game 
called  Golf.  They  took  to  it  in  their  deliberate, 
methodical  fashion,  and  laid  out  a  little  course 
on  the  hitherto  neglected  Links  of  Eric.  Thither 
they  repaired  on  fine  summer  evenings,  carrying 
queer  long-nosed  wooden  clubs  and  feather-stuffed 
balls.  The  golfing  minister  went  the  way  of  all 
flesh,  and  his  compeers  with  him,  but  the  golf 
endured.  Generations  of  slow-moving  fisher- 
folk,  ecclesiastical  luminaries,  and  holiday-mak- 
ing scholars  —  for  the  fame  of  the  links  brought 
visitors  from  so  great  a  distance  as  a  hundred 
miles  —  all  played  round  the  links  in  their  day, 
recking  nothing  of  Medal  Scores,  Colonel  Bogey, 
the  Schenectady  putter,  or  other  modern  ex- 
crescences. They  used  their  long-nosed  wooden 
clubs  to  some  purpose,  and  though  they  did  not 
drive  the  feather-stuffed  ball  very  far  they  drove 
it  very  straight.  Once  the  great  Allan  Robertson 
visited  Port  Allan.  He  pronounced  favourably 
on  the  course,  and  a  word  from  Allan  Robertson 
in  those  days  was  as  good  as  a  descriptive  article 
in  "Golf  Illustrated"  in  these.  And  so  for  many 
years  the  Links  of  Eric  grew  steadily  in  favour 
with  golfers. 

But  one  day  —  one  momentous  day  —  the  men 
of  England  came  to  the  conclusion  that  golf  was 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  301 

the  one  and  only  game  worth  playing,  and  Scot- 
land the  one  and  only  place  to  play  it  in.  Ac- 
cordingly, with  that  spontaneous  readiness  to 
suit  the  action  to  the  word  that  has  ever  been 
the  characteristic  of  an  Empire-making  race, 
they  migrated  with  their  wives  and  families  across 
the  Border,  and  proceeded  to  hew  divots  from 
the  face  of  Scotland  with  an  eagerness  and 
bonhomie  which  was  equalled  only  by  the  una- 
nimity with  which  they  forbore  to  replace  them. 
Golf,  which  had  existed  for  centuries  as  a  sort 
of  religious  ceremony,  to  be  cultivated  by  its 
votaries  in  reverent  silence  and  at  a  strictly 
processional  pace,  suddenly  became  a  species  of 
bank-holiday  picnic;  and  those  ancient  and 
highly  respectable  burghs  which  fostered  the 
game  in  especial  purity  were  converted  into 
rather  recherche  editions  of  Hampstead  Heath. 

However  unpleasant  this  foray  might  be  for 
the  Scottish  golfer,  it  presented  certain  com- 
pensating features  to  the  Scottish  railways  and 
hotel-proprietors.  Of  remote  villages,  which  had 
formerly  figured  in  the  traffic  returns  as  occa- 
sional yielders  of  a  truck-load  of  fish,  there  now 
appeared  highly-tinted  pictures,  with  the  Com- 
pany's name  at  the  top  and  a  list  of  trains  at  the 
bottom.  The  hotel  proprietors,  on  their  part, 
quickly  realising  that  to  the  average  Englishman 
a  golf-course  consists  of  any  tract  of  land  in  Scot- 


302  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

land  plentifully  endowed  with  rabbit-holes,  hast- 
ily staked  out  a  claim  on  the  nearest  collection 
of  sand-hills,  and  advertised  to  all  and  sundry 
that  visitors  to  their  hotel  would  be  permitted, 
for  a  consideration,  to  play  golf  over  the  cele- 
brated links  of  so-and-so,  "adjoining  the  hotel." 

Port  Allan  was  one  of  the  places  which  bene- 
fited by  reason  of  the  boom.  The  nearest  railway 
station  was  seven  miles  away,  but  the  Company 
quickly  remedied  that  defect,  and  advertised 
through  bookings  from  King's  Cross.  A  special 
time-table  was  published,  decorated  at  the  top 
with  a  coloured  view  of  the  Links  of  Eric,  in  the 
foreground  of  which  a  golf -match  was  in  prog- 
ress between  a  gentleman  hi  a  sky-blue  Nor- 
folk suit  and  a  red  cap,  and  a  lady  in  a  red  dress 
and  a  sky-blue  hat.  The  lady  was  depicted  in  the 
act  of  driving  off  from  the  tee  (with  a  blue  put- 
ter); while  the  gentleman,  rather  ungallantly, 
had  gone  forward  a  few  yards,  and  was  engaged 
in  playing  out  of  the  first  bunker  (with  a  red 
brassie). 

The  inhabitants  of  Port  Allan  soon  realised 
that  to  play  golf  over  their  own  links  in  summer 
was  out  of  the  question.  They  accordingly  ac- 
cepted the  situation,  and,  relegating  their  own 
golfing  efforts  to  the  autumn,  turned  to  the 
equally  congenial  task  of  spoiling  the  Egyptians. 
Elderly  seafaring  men,  who  had  hitherto  ex- 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  303 

tracted  a  precarious  livelihood  from  the  grudging 
ocean,  abandoned  their  nets  and  took  to  carrying 
clubs,  the  fee  of  eighteenpence  per  round  which 
they  were  permitted  to  charge  being  inclusive 
of  a  vast  amount  of  caustic  criticism,  and  price- 
less, if  unintelligible,  advice. 

Behold,  then,  the  Links  of  Eric  one  fine  morn- 
ing in  early  August.  Observe  the  throng  of 
golfers,  male  and  female,  young  and  old.  Here 
you  may  see  Youth,  full  of  slashing  drives  and 
strange  oaths,  and  Age,  known  for  his  sage  coun- 
sel and  long  putts.  Here  is  a  schoolboy,  with  bare 
knees  and  head,  and  a  supple  swing  that  makes 
middle-aged  golfers  wriggle  with  envy.  Here  is 
a  "golfing  minister."  His  clubs  are  old-fashioned 
and  his  ball  has  been  repainted;  you  will  out- 
drive him  over  and  over  again,  but  unless  you 
have  at  least  a  stroke  in  hand  when  it  comes  to 
approaching  and  putting,  he  will  beat  you.  Those 
two  men  over  there,  playing  in  their  shirt-sleeves, 
are  Americans,  of  course.  They  are  playing 
very  keenly,  but  they  are  thinking,  not  of  the 
game,  but  of  some  entirely  new  and  original  way 
of  winning  it.  The  fat  gentleman  is  an  English- 
man. He  originally  took  up  golf  by  his  doctor's 
orders,  but  by  this  time  is  badly  bitten.  He 
wears  a  red  coat,  adorned  with  the  buttons  of 
the  Toadley-in-the-Hole  Golf  Club,  and  ekes 
out  his  want  of  skill  by  the  help  of  patent  clubs, 


304  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

an  india-rubber  tee,  —  ye  gods !  —  and  a  wealth 
of  technical  phraseology.  The  couple  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  course,  with  a  highly  profane  throng 
waiting  behind  them,  are  a  honeymoon,  and  as 
such  ought  not  to  be  there  at  all.  Their  balls 
lie  side  by  side  in  a  rabbit-scrape;  and  they  are 
disputing,  not  as  to  the  right  club  to  use,  but 
whether  Pussy  can  possibly  love  Sweetie  more 
than  Sweetie  loves  Pussy.  Ah!  an  irascible 
couple  have  driven  into  them!  Sweetie,  at  once 
putting  a  protecting  arm  round  Pussy,  turns  and 
glares  at  them  wrathfully,  but  Pussy,  looking 
distinctly  relieved,  picks  up  both  balls  and  im- 
pels her  newly  acquired  lord  over  an  adjacent 
sand-hill  to  a  secluded  spot  that  she  knows  of, 
where  they  can  sit  in  peace  till  lunch-time. 

But  besides  these  anomalies  and  curiosities  — 
common  objects  of  all  golf-links  in  summer  — 
there  are  some  real  golfers  to  be  seen.  Here  are 
two  young  men  worth  watching.  Number  One  is 
addressing  his  ball  for  an  approach  shot.  It  will 
have  to  be  a  cunning  stroke,  for  there  is  a  yawn- 
ing bunker  in  front  of  the  green  and  a  thick 
patch  of  whin  beyond  it.  If  he  attempts  to  run 
the  ball  up,  the  bunker  will  catch  it,  and  if  he 
plays  to  carry  the  bunker,  the  chances  are  that 
he  will  overrun  the  green  and  find  himself  in  the 
whins.  He  plays  a  fine  lofted  ball,  which  drops 
on  to  the  hard  green  six  yards  from  the  pin, 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  305 

and  then,  with  that  marvellous  back-spin  which 
only  a  master-hand  can  impart,  gives  a  curious 
staggering  rebound,  and  after  tickling  forward 
for  a  few  yards  lies  almost  dead. 

"Good  shot!"  remarks  Number  Two,  and 
turns  to  play  his  own  ball.  It  is  lying  very  badly 
in  some  bents,  half  buried  in  sand.  Number 
Two  —  he  is  a  left-hander  —  rejects  the  prof- 
fered niblick  and  selects  a  ponderous  driving- 
mashie.  Then,  with  an  opening  of  the  shoulders 
and  an  upward  lift  that  betray  the  cricketer  in 
every  movement,  he  gives  a  mighty  slog,  and 
propels  a  confused  cloud  of  sand,  bents,  and 
ball  into  the  bunker  guarding  the  green  sixty 
yards  away. 

"Too  good  that  time,  Pip,"  remarks  his  com- 
panion. 

"Did  n't  think  I  could  get  so  far,"  replied  Pip. 
"However,  I  get  a  stroke  from  you  this  hole,  so 
wait  a  bit." 

He  descended  into  the  bunker,  but  the  ball 
was  reposing  in  a  heel-mark,  and  it  required 
two  even  of  Pip's  earth-compelling  niblick  shots 
to  remove  it.  Colquhoun,  plus  one  at  St.  An- 
drew's, consequently  took  the  hole  in  four. 

Pip  was  staying  at  the  Station  Hotel,  by  him- 
self. The  motive  which  had  brought  him  to  a 
distant  part  of  Scotland,  to  play  a  game  at  which 
he  was  far  from  being  first-class,  will  appear  in 


306  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

due  course.  Sufficient  to  say  that  it  was  a  strong 
motive,  and  an  exceedingly  ancient  one,  —  a 
motive  which  has  brought  about  even  more  sur- 
prising events  than  the  abandonment  of  first- 
class  cricket,  on  the  eve  of  a  Test  Match,  by 
the  finest  amateur  bowler  in  England. 

They  finished  their  match  half  an  hour  later, 
Pip,  who  was  in  receipt  of  a  half,  being  one 
down.  As  they  turned  to  leave  the  last  green 
Pip  found  himself  confronted  by  a  large  man  in 
a  Panama  hat. 

"Pip!"  cried  the  stranger  —  "Pip!  Bless  my 
soul !  What  the  blazes  are  you  doing  in  Scotland 
in  August?" 

"Hallo,  Raven,"  replied  Pip.  "Fancy  meet- 
ing you,  old  man!" 

They  turned  and  walked  up  the  road  together. 

"Why  aren't  you  playing  for  the  County?" 
inquired  Pip  severely. 

"Missis,"  replied  Raven  Innes  laconically. 
Then  he  added, — 

"Said  we  must  go  away  for  August  on  account 
of  the  kiddies.  I  'm  taking  a  holiday  from  cricket 
in  consequence:  golf  is  n't  a  bad  substitute.  But 
what  are  you  doing  here,  young  man?  Are  n't 
you  about  due  at  Old  Trafford  for  the  Test 
Match?" 

"No,"  replied  Pip,  beginning  to  fill  his  pipe; 
"I'm  not." 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  307 

Innes  stopped  short  in  his  walk. 

"You  don't  mean  to  teU  me,"  he  said,  "that 
they  have  been  such  fools  — " 

"It's  not  that,"  said  Pip. 

"Oh!   So  you're  chosen  all  right,  then?" 

"Yes,  I'm  chosen,  but  I'm  not  going  to  play." 

"Great  Caesar!   Why?" 

"Well,  I'm  a  bit  stale,  and  I'm  rather  off 
cricket,  and  —  and  I  want  to  play  golf." 

Now  Raven  Innes  was  a  man  of  the  world. 
Moreover,  he  was  a  married  man,  —  married  to 
a  young  and  pretty  wife,  —  and  married  men 
know  things  that  are  not  revealed  to  the  ordi- 
nary unobservant  bachelor.  Constant  female 
society  sharpens  then-  wits.  A  woman  has  only 
one  explanation  for  all  male  eccentricities,  and 
Raven  Innes  had  been  married  long  enough  to 
know  that  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  this  explana- 
tion is  the  correct  one.  He  therefore  pursued  the 
conversation  on  the  lines  which  he  felt  sure  would 
have  been  adopted  by  Mrs.  Raven  had  she  been 
present. 

"\Ve  have  taken  a  cottage  down  the  road  — 
'Knocknaha,'  it's  called  —  so  you  must  come 
and  look  us  up.  No  time  like  the  present,  so  come 
along  now.  By  the  way,  my  little  sister  is  stay- 
ing with  us  —  Elsie.  Have  you  seen  her  yet?" 

The  diplomat  cocked  an  inquiring  eye  in  the 
direction  of  his  victim.  Personally  he  had  never 


308  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

noticed  anything  unusual  in  Pip's  relations  with 
Elsie,  but  in  matters  of  this  kind  Raven  was 
guided  entirely  by  his  wife,  and  as  that  female 
Hawkshaw,  whose  feminine  instincts  were  in- 
fallible in  these  cases,  had  long  since  informed 
him  that  there  was  something  in  the  wind,  he 
was  now  embarking  upon  this  elephantine  effort 
of  cross-examination. 

"No,  really?"  said  Pip,  who  was  lighting  his 
pipe  at  the  moment.  "No,  I  haven't  seen  her 
yet." 

He  threw  away  the  match  and  walked  on,  his 
features  as  immobile  as  usual.  But  his  old  weak- 
ness betrayed  him,  and  he  turned  a  dusky  red. 

Raven  Innes  noted  this  portent,  chuckled, 
and  inwardly  dug  himself  in  the  ribs,  as  we  all 
do  when  we  find  that  our  natural  acumen  has 
unearthed  a  savoury  secret. 

Nearly  a  year  had  passed  since  Pip  returned 
from  "abroad,"  once  more  to  take  his  place 
among  his  friends  and  in  first-class  cricket. 
During  that  time  he  had  met  Elsie  only  once 
—  at  Pipette's  wedding;  but  he  had  gathered 
then,  by  dint  of  some  artful  cross-examination, 
that  she  would  probably  be  the  guest  of  the 
Ravens  at  Port  Allan  during  August.  Had 
Raven  Innes  realised  that  their  chance  meeting 
on  the  links  that  morning  had  been  the  result 
of  a  fortnight's  planning,  waiting,  and  scheming 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  309 

on  the  part  of  the  enigmatical  young  man  beside 
him;  that  the  said  young  man  had  abandoned 
first-class  cricket  in  the  height  of  the  season,  and 
taken  the  precaution  of  arriving  at  Port  Allan  a 
full  week  before  he  knew  Elsie  was  due  there, 
in  order  to  avoid  all  appearance  of  having  fol- 
lowed her,  and  had  even  endeavoured  to  give 
a  casual  appearance  to  their  prospective  and 
greatly  desired  meeting  by  withholding  his 
presence  for  another  three  days,  —  Raven  Innes 
would  have  realised  that  a  superficial  blush  may 
conceal  a  greater  depth  of  guile  than  the  ordi- 
nary male  intellect  can  fathom. 

ii 

There  are  many  kinds  of  golfer,  and  there  are 
many  kinds  of  girl,  but  there  are  only  two  kinds 
of  girl  with  whom  it  is  possible  to  play  golf.  One 
is  the  beginner  and  the  other  is  the  expert. 

The  beginner  is  wholly  irresponsible.  Let  us 
imagine  that  she  is  taken  out  in  a  "mixed" 
foursome.  She  refers  to  her  clubs  as  "sticks," 
or  even  "poles."  She  declines  the  services  of 
a  caddie,  with  a  little  scream  of  apprehension 
at  the  very  idea  of  such  publicity.  For  the 
same  reason  she  refuses  to  drive  her  ball  from 
the  tee  if  any  one  is  "looking."  Indeed,  she  has 
been  known  to  implore  her  partner  to  turn  even 
his  sympathetic  back  during  that  performance. 


310  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

This  excessive  shyness  is  maintained  all  the  way 
to  the  first  hole,  and,  unless  carefully  watched, 
she  will  arrive  at  the  green,  ball  in  hand,  hav- 
ing been  unable  to  endure  the  critical  gaze  of  two 
men  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away, 
who  she  feels  convinced  are  laughing  at  her. 

Presently  she  feels  more  comfortable.  A  long 
drive  by  her  partner  elicits  a  little  shriek  of 
astonished  admiration,  which  flatters  his  manly 
vanity,  and  goes  far  to  mitigate  the  handicap 
of  her  assistance.  She  at  once  begins  to  imitate 
his  stance  and  swing,  straddles  well  over  the 
ball,  shuts  both  eyes,  gives  a  mighty  swipe,  and 
usually  falls  down,  the  necessity  of  "tackety 
shoon"  being  as  yet  unrevealed  to  her.  On  she 
goes,  perfectly  at  her  ease  now,  though  a  little 
hot  and  flustered,  babbling  incessantly  during 
the  stroke,  regardless  of  the  sinister  frowns  of  the 
man  who  is  endeavouring  to  play  it.  Should  she 
miss  the  ball  altogether,  she  is  moved  to  unnec- 
essary mirth;  should  she  by  any  chance  hit  it 
out  of  sight,  say  over  a  sand-hill,  she  scampers 
up  the  slope  after  it  at  a  run,  and  announces  its 
discovery  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  upsetting  the 
nerves  of  all  the  old  gentlemen  within  earshot. 
On  the  green  her  actions  are  as  characteristic  as 
ever.  In  running  the  ball  up  to  the  hole  she  either 
hits  the  ground  behind  it  and  sends  it  six  inches, 
or  plays  a  shot  which  necessitates  the  departure 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  311 

of  her  long-suffering  partner,  niblick  in  hand 
and  scarlet  in  the  face,  to  an  adjacent  bunker. 
Short  putts  she  invariably  holes  out  by  an  in- 
genious and  unblushing  push-stroke,  which  no 
one  has  the  heart  to  question  or  the  courage  to 
criticise.  So  the  game  proceeds.  It  is  not  golf, 
but  then  you  never  expected  it  to  be.  It  is  an- 
other game,  even  older,  and  even  better. 

After  a  few  such  rounds  as  this  the  dread  seri- 
ousness of  the  game  descends  upon  her,  and  she 
loses  some  of  her  charm.  She  never  speaks,  for 
she  knows  now  that  there  is  a  rule  on  the  sub- 
ject. Her  irresponsible  gaiety  is  gone;  she  is  ac- 
tually nervous;  and  after  missing  an  easy  stroke 
(which  she  does  quite  as  frequently  as  before), 
she  looks  piteously  at  her  partner,  and  even 
sighs  enviously  as  the  lady  on  the  other  side, 
whom  she  has  hitherto  regarded  as  a  mere  ex- 
ample of  how  clothes  should  not  be  worn,  plays 
a  perfect  approach  out  of  a  bad  lie.  In  short, 
she  has  reverted  to  the  status  of  the  ordinary 
duffer,  and  as  such  she  ceases  to  be  anything 
but  a  common  nuisance  —  unless,  of  course,  sir, 
you  take  a  special  interest  in  her,  in  which  case 
you  will  find  her  quite  as  attractive,  and  in- 
finitely less  exhausting,  over  a  quiet  game  of 
croquet  or  spilikins. 

But  when  —  or  rather  if  —  she  attains  to  the 
degree  of  a  real  golfer;  if  she  can  drive  off  before 


312  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

a  crowd  without  giggling  or  blushing,  and  can 
be  trusted  not  to  shut  her  eyes  when  taking  a 
full  swing,  —  then  she  is  indeed  a  pearl  of  price, 
for  she  is  now  a  congenial  companion,  from  the 
golfing  as  well  as  the  other  point  of  view.  She  is 
neither  childishly  frivolous  nor  grimly  deter- 
mined. She  looks  upon  golf  neither  as  a  glorified 
form  of  croquet  nor  as  woman's  one  mission  in 
life.  Behold  her  as  she  walks  across  the  links  to 
begin  her  morning  round.  She  calls  up  her  fa- 
vourite caddie  with  a  little  nod  of  her  head,  and 
gives  you  a  cheery  good-morning  when  she 
finds  you  waiting  at  the  first  tee.  (A  pretty  girl- 
golfer  is  about  as  nearly  perfect  as  a  woman  can 
be,  but  even  that  cannot  make  her  punctual.) 
She  is  neatly  turned  out:  she  has  abandoned  kid 
boots  with  high  heels,  and  wears  trim  shoes  with 
plenty  of  nails  in  them.  Her  head  is  usually 
bare,  or  perhaps  she  wears  a  motor-veil  tied 
under  her  chin;  at  any  rate,  the  unstable  edifice 
of  former  days  no  longer  flaps  in  the  breeze 
and  obscures  her  vision.  She  is  independent 
too.  She  does  not  take  the  first  club  the  caddie 
offers:  she  chooses  her  own,  and  rates  the  boy 
for  not  having  cleaned  it  better.  No  longer  does 
she  put  her  ball  in  her  pocket  for  fear  of  keeping 
back  the  green;  on  the  contrary,  she  drives  re- 
peatedly (and  I  am  afraid  purposely)  into  a  steady- 
going  foursome  in  front.  It  is  useless  to  remind 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  313 

her  of  a  by-law  which  says  that  ladies  must  in- 
variably give  way  to  gentlemen  and  allow  them 
to  pass. 

"Real  gentlemen,"  she  remarks,  "would  in- 
variably give  way  to  ladies  and  allow  them  to 
pass."  And  her  iron-shot  bumps  past  the  head 
of  an  octogenarian  who  is  trying  to  hole  out  a 
long  putt  on  the  distant  green. 

To  look  at  her  now  you  would  never  guess  that 
she  was  once  a  shrinking  debutante,  a  hewer  of 
turf,  and  a  drawer  of  water  from  the  eyes  of  the 
green-keeper.  Her  putting  is  still  erratic,  and  she 
is  rather  helpless  in  heavy  sand;  but,  given  a 
clean  lie  and  a  fair  stance,  she  will  handle  her 
light  clubs  to  some  purpose,  and  her  swing  is  a 
"sicht  for  sair  een."  If  you  are  at  all  off  your 
game  she  will  beat  you;  therefore  it  is  advisable 
to  offer  her  points  before  beginning  the  match, 
not  so  much  because  she  needs  them  as  to  pre- 
serve your  masculine  self-respect  in  the  event  of 
a  "regrettable  incident." 

Miss  Elsie  Innes  combined  all  the  virtues  of 
the  girl-golfer  in  her  own  graceful  young  body. 
Though  she  had  "rilled  out"  considerably  since 
we  last  saw  her,  she  was  anything  but  a  hob- 
nailed, masculine  woman.  She  was  neither 
heavily  built  nor  muscular;  she  looked  almost 
too  fragile  to  play  at  all.  But  she  handled  her 
light  clubs  with  a  suppleness  and  dexterity  usu- 


314  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

ally  given  only  to  a  schoolboy  of  fourteen,  and 
the  length  of  her  drive  was  amazing.  She  was 
always  graceful,  always  cool,  and,  as  Pip  once 
noted  to  himself,  "never  got  either  hot  or  hairy." 
After  their  first  meeting  at  Raven's  cottage 
Pip  and  Elsie  saw  each  other  constantly.  They 
played  a  round  of  golf  every  day,  usually  between 
tea  and  dinner,  the  hour  when  the  ardent  male 
golfer  relaxes  from  his  noonday  strenuousness 
and  turns  to  thoughts  of  mixed  foursomes.  Usu- 
ally Pip  and  Elsie  played  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Raven. 
Raven  was  a  far  better  golfer  than  Pip,  but  then 
Elsie  was  very  much  the  superior  of  Mrs.  Raven, 
which  made  matters  even.  Many  were  the  bat- 
tles that  raged  between  the  two  couples.  At  first 
victory  favoured  the  married  pair.  Raven,  be- 
sides being  a  scratch  golfer,  was  a  good  general, 
and  his  unruffled  coolness  and  unerring  advice 
made  the  most  of  his  wife's  limited  powers.  Pip 
and  Elsie,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not  "combine" 
well.  Elsie,  who  (strictly  between  ourselves) 
fancied  her  golf  not  a  little,  insisted  on  dictating 
the  line  of  action  to  be  followed  on  each  occasion, 
and  more  than  once  told  Pip  what  club  to  use. 
Pip,  though  relatively  her  inferior,  declined  at 
first  to  be  trampled  upon  by  a  female,  even  a 
high-spirited  goddess  with  fair  hair  and  a  swing 
like  an  archangel.  But  few  men  in  Pip's  condi- 
tion argue  the  point  long:  after  a  brief  struggle 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  315 

to  assert  the  predominance  of  man  he  subsided 
completely,  and,  as  he  thought,  rather  diplomati- 
cally. There  he  was  wrong.  The  sage  of  antiq- 
uity who  composed  the  uncomplimentary  prov- 
erb about  "a  woman,  a  dog,  and  a  walnut  tree" 
knew  something  of  life,  and  the  course  of  Pip's 
true  love  might  have  run  a  good  deal  smoother  if 
he  had  put  down  his  masculine  foot  a  little  more 
frequently.  However,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
after  his  capitulation  their  golfing  efforts  reached 
a  higher  level  than  before.  After  a  series  of 
matches  extending  over  a  week,  each  side  stood 
with  three  games  to  its  credit,  Pip  and  Elsie  just 
managing  to  draw  level  by  winning  a  match  on 
the  last  green  on  Saturday  evening. 

Sunday  golf  is  not  encouraged  in  Scotland. 
Consequently  next  morning  Elsie  accompanied 
her  relatives  to  one  of  the  numerous  places  of 
worship  in  Port  Allan,  which  ancient  township 
possessed  its  full  complement  of  Auld  Licht, 
Established,  United,  and  Wee  Free  kirks,  and 
other  homes  of  religious  controversy.  Pip  stayed 
on  the  hotel  veranda  and  smoked,  watching  them 
pass  but  lacking  nerve  to  join  them.  He  sum- 
moned up  sufficient  courage,  however,  to  put  in 
an  appearance  at  Knocknaha  during  the  after- 
noon. He  was  even  more  silent  than  usual, 
though  he  made  a  hearty  tea. 

After  that  meal  he  invited  Elsie  to  come  for  a 


316  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

walk  with  him.  She  consented,  and  they  set  off 
together,  followed  by  the  amused  glances  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Raven. 

It  was  a  glorious  August  afternoon.  The  North 
Sea,  blue  and  placid,  lapped  gently  against  the 
red  cliffs,  or  ran  with  a  slow  hiss  up  the  slope  of 
yellow  sand  which  bordered  the  Links  of  Eric. 
There  was  hardly  any  wind  —  just  enough,  in 
fact,  to  keep  the  air  clear;  and  Pip  and  Elsie,  as 
they  lounged  luxuriously  in  a  hollow  at  the  top 
of  a  sand-hill,  —  their  walk  had  been  strictly 
limited  to  a  Sabbath  day's  journey,  —  could  see 
the  smoke  of  a  steam-trawler  on  the  horizon 
though  they  could  not  see  the  ship  herself. 

"This  is  nice,"  murmured  Elsie  luxuriantly, 
as  she  arranged  her  holland  skirt  to  cover  up  as 
much  of  her  tan  boots  as  possible  —  her  Sunday 
frock  had  found  its  way  back  to  her  wardrobe 
soon  after  church.  "Sunday  really  does  feel  like 
a  day  of  rest  if  one  plays  golf  all  the  week." 

"Talking  of  golf,"  said  Pip,  "you  haven't 
played  me  yet." 

"I've  played  with  you  all  the  week,"  replied 
Elsie. 

"With  me,  not  against  me,"  said  Pip. 

"Oh,  I  see.  All  right;  I'll  play  with  Raven 
to-morrow  against  you  and  Ethel.  We  shall  beat 
you  horribly,  though." 

Elsie  was  in  a  very  perverse  mood. 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  317 

"Yes,  but  I  want  a  single  —  a  match,"  ex- 
plained Pip. 

"Oh!  "said  Elsie. 

There  was  a  pause.  Pip  lit  his  pipe,  which  had 
somehow  gone  out,  and  continued, — 

"Shall  we  say  to-morrow  morning?" 

"Afraid  not,"  said  Elsie.  "I  rather  think  I 
promised  to  play  one  of  the  men  in  the  hotel." 

This  was  not  strictly  true,  but  Elsie  was  in  a 
curious  frame  of  mind  that  evening.  There  was 
no  reason  why  she  should  not  have  played  Pip  his 
match,  nor  was  she  particularly  averse  to  doing 
so.  But  some  flash  of  feminine  intuition,  infallible 
as  ever,  was  unconsciously  keeping  her  in  the  de- 
fensive attitude  natural  to  women  in  such  cases. 

"Is  it  Anstruther?"  inquired  Pip. 

"Yes,"  said  Elsie  rashly. 

"In  that  case  your  match  is  off,  for  he  has  had 
a  wire,  and  must  go  to-morrow  morning." 

"It's  not  Mr.  Anstruther,"  said  Elsie.  "I  had 
forgotten  he  was  going  away."  (This  was  strictly 
true.) 

"Is  it  Gaythorne?"  asked  Pip. 

Elsie  regarded  him  covertly,  through  conven- 
iently long  lashes.  She  suspected  another  trap. 

"No,"  she  said  at  last. 

"That's  queer,"  remarked  Pip  meditatively. 
"He  was  saying  only  last  night  that  he  expected 
to  play  you  to-morrow  morning." 


318  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

Elsie,  who  had  fallen  into  the  not  uncommon 
error  of  underrating  her  adversary,  was  for  the 
moment  quite  flabbergasted  by  this  bold  stroke. 
Then,  quickly  noting  the  joint  in  her  opponent's 
harness,  she  interposed  swiftly,  — 

"Why  did  you  ask  me  to  play  with  you, 
then?" 

"I  did  n't  think  you  ought  to  play  with  him," 
said  Pip  coolly.  "He's  an  utter  outsider." 

"I  shall  play  with  whom  I  like,"  said  Elsie 
hotly. 

"All  right,"  said  Pip;  "I'll  tell  him.  What 
time  do  you  want  him  to  be  down  at  the  tee?" 

Elsie,  though  not  inexperienced  in  the  manage- 
ment of  young  men,  fairly  gasped  for  breath. 
This  slow-speaking,  serious  youth  would,  unless 
she  could  speedily  extricate  herself,  either  compel 
her  to  acknowledge  herself  defeated  or  else  force 
her  into  an  unpremeditated  golf-match  with  a 
comparative  stranger. 

"I  —  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  to  play  with  Mr. 
Gaythorne,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  sorry!"  replied  Pip;  "I  thought  you  said 
you  did.  Very  well,  I'll  tell  him  not  to  come, 
and  you  can  play  me  instead." 

Now,  it  is  obviously  unwise  to  continue  to 
assert  to  a  second  party  that  you  have  a  previous 
engagement  with  a  third  party  when  you  have 
not,  especially  when  your  knowledge  is  shared 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  319 

by  the  second  party.  So  Elsie  did  the  only  possi- 
ble thing,  and  laughed. 

"All  right,  Pip,"  she  said;  "I'll  play  you.  Be 
down  at  the  tee  early  and  we'll  get  off  before  the 
rush  begins.  As  it  is,  I  shall  be  driven  into  all  the 
time,  playing  with  a  duffer!" 

Pip,  quite  unmoved,  parried  this  insult  with 
another. 

"  Right-o,"  he  said.  "  What  shall  I  give  you  — 
a  half?" 

Elsie  smiled  indulgently. 

"As  a  favour,"  she  replied,  "and  to  preserve 
your  masculine  pride,  I  will  play  you  level. 
Otherwise—" 

Pip  interrupted.  He  was  not  looking  quite  so 
serene  as  usual,  and  he  puffed  almost  nervously 
at  his  pipe. 

"What  shall  we  play  for?"  he  asked. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"In  a  match,"  he  explained,  "it  is  usual  to 
play  for  some  small  stake  —  a  ball,  or  a  bottle 
of—" 

"Nonsense!"  said  Elsie  decidedly. 

"Not  a  bit;  it's  often  done,"  said  Pip.  "What 
shall  we  play  for?" 

"We  shall  play  for  love." 

"Love?  Right!" 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Technical 
terms  lead  one  into  such  pitfalls.  Elsie  felt  her- 


320  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

self  beginning  to  turn  pink.  Pip,  who  might  have 
smoothed  the  situation  over,  made  it  worse  by 
saying,— 

"So  it's  to  be  a  love-match?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  Elsie's  colour  now. 
A  blush  ran  flaming  over  her  face  in  a  great 
scarlet  wave.  But  Pip  proceeded  quite  calmly, — 

"That's  just  what  I  want  it  to  be.  I'm  glad 
you  said  that,  though  of  course  you  did  n't  mean 
it  in  that  way.  You  are  a  good  golfer.  On  your 
day  you  can  get  round  in,  say,  ninety.  I  am  a 
rotter.  I  have  only  twice  got  round  under  a 
hundred.  If  I  play  you  level  to-morrow  and  beat 
you,  will  you  —  marry  me?" 

"Pipt" 

Elsie  was  sincere  enough  now.  She  was  genu- 
inely astounded.  She  knew  Pip  for  a  man  of 
blunt  speech  and  direct  methods,  but  she  had 
hardly  been  prepared  for  this.  She  merely 
turned  from  red  to  white,  and  repeated  her 
astonished  cry, — 

"Pip!" 

Pip  continued,  quite  coolly  now, — 

"  Yes,  I  mean  it.  I  have  been  in  love  with  you 
from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you,  the  afternoon 
that  I  took  you  to  the  Blanes'  garden-party. 
You  remember?"  The  girl  nodded  gravely.  "I 
was  bowled  over  then,  and  I've  worshipped  you 
ever  since.  I  suppose  you  knew  that?  Women 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  321 

are  always  said  to  know  these  things.  Did  you 
know?" 

This  was  a  long  speech  for  Pip,  but  it  drew  no 
answer  from  Elsie. 

"Did  you  know?"  he  repeated  gently. 

Elsie  plucked  a  few  bents  from  the  sand  around 
her  and  began  to  plait  them  with  great  care. 

"Did  you  know? "  asked  Pip  for  the  third  time. 

Elsie  answered,  without  raising  her  eyes  — 

"  Yes  —  at  least,  lately.  But  you  never  gave 
yourself  away,  Pip." 

"  I  know  that.  I  rather  prided  my  self  on  it.  I 
should  have  asked  you  long  ago,  only  after  the 
Governor's  death  I  had  to  —  work  for  a  living. 
It's  only  recently  I  have  become  a  man  with 
money.  Besides,  I  think  these  things  ought  to 
be  kept  sacred,  just  between  —  between  the  two, 
you  know.  I  have  n't  a  very  high  opinion  of 
myself,  but  I  do  think  I  can  keep  a  secret.  I 
was  n't  going  to  have  you  talked  about,  even  by 
friends.  However"  —  he  brought  his  gaze  back 
from  the  distant  horizon  with  an  effort  —  "  we 
are  wandering  from  the  point.  Will  you  play  me 
a  match,  Elsie,  —  a  love-match?" 

Elsie  raised  her  eyes  for  the  first  time. 

"Pip,  don't  be  absurd!" 

"Absurd?  Not  a  bit.  I  think  it's  a  jolly  sen- 
sible notion.  I  simply  can't  talk  the  sort  of  rot 
that  men  in  love  are  supposed  to  talk  —  it  is  n't 


322  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

in  me.  All  I  can  do  is  to  make  you  a  fair  offer 
like  this  —  a  sort  of  challenge  to  single  combat, 
you  know.  If  I  win,  you  give  in  to  me;  if  you 
win,  well,  I  shall  have  to  chuck  it,  that's  all." 

"But  Pip,"  said  Elsie,  "  supposing  I  ..." 

Then  she  checked  herself  suddenly,  leaving 
Pip  to  wonder  what  she  had  meant  to  say.  He 
himself  could  see  no  flaw  in  the  scheme.  His 
own  natural  modesty  prevented  him  from  believ- 
ing that  Elsie,  glorious  creature,  could  ever  de- 
sire to  take  him  of  her  own  free  will,  and  conse- 
quently his  simple  mind  had  reverted  to  the 
primitive  notion,  inherent  in  most  men,  of  mar- 
riage by  conquest.  His  challenge  to  a  golf -match 
struck  him  as  an  eminently  sporting  offer. 

"I  figured  it  out  this  way,"  he  went  on  after 
a  pause.  "I  said  to  myself,  'She  will  never 
marry  me  simply  for  the  asking,  of  course';  so 
—  what  did  you  say?  " 

"Nothing."  Elsie  had  suddenly  ceased  plaiting 
and  parted  her  lips. 

"So,"  continued  Pip,  "I  said,  'The  only  way 
to  make  her  give  in  will  be  to  get  the  better  of 
her  in  something  —  to  show  superiority  over 
her  in  some  way.  It  will  be  no  use  my  trying 
to  persuade  her  by  arguments.  I'm  slow  of 
speech,  especially  with  women,  and  Elsie  would 
simply  talk  me  downstairs  and  into  the  street 
in  about  two  minutes.  A  girl  like  her  won't 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  323 

surrender  without  a  struggle.  Quite  right  too. 
I  shall  have  to  try  something  else.  It  must  n't 
be  too  one-sided  either  way,  for  if  it's  in  her 
favour  I  shall  lose,  and  if  it's  in  mine  she  won't 
accept.  It  must  be  a  fair  match.' " 

And  so  he  continued,  simply,  honestly,  laying 
bare  to  her  all  the  mighty  scheme  whereby  he 
proposed  to  overcome  her  stubborn  resistance. 
He  had  first  thought,  he  told  her,  of  a  single- 
wicket  cricket-match,  but  had  abandoned  the 
project  as  being  too  greatly  in  his  favour.  "You 
keep  a  very  straight  bat  for  a  girl,"  he  said,  "but 
you  can  never  resist  my  slow  curly  one,  that 
looks  as  if  it  were  going  to  pitch  outside  the  off 
stump,  and  does  n't.  I  know  your  weaknesses, 
you  see,"  he  added  with  a  friendly  smile. 

"Yes,  Pip,"  said  Elsie,  in  a  rather  subdued 
tone,  "  some  of  them." 

Pip  then  proceeded  to  enumerate  the  other 
tests  of  skill  that  had  occurred  to  him.  "I 
thought  of  croquet,"  he  said,  "but  really  croquet 
is  such  d —  Well,  anyhow,  I  don't  think  croquet 
would  have  done.  Billiards  is  too  fluky.  Chess 
is  piffle.  There  are  lots  of  other  games,  but  you 
are  so  —  so  weak!"  (Elsie's  slight  frame  stiff- 
ened indignantly  at  this.)  "Then  I  thought  of 
the  golf -match,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  that  was 
the  ticket.  So  I  packed  up  my  bag  and  wired 
for  rooms  at  the  hotel  here,  and  have  been 


324  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

waiting  for  you  to  arrive  ever  since  the  first  of 
August." 

There  was  a  pause  —  a  long  pause.  Elsie  was 
thinking  —  of  what,  she  hardly  knew.  Pip  was 
watching  her,  anxious  to  see  how  she  received 
his  great  idea.  Presently  he  continued,  — 

"Of  course  the  golf -match  is  all  in  your  fa- 
vour. The  chances  are  about  three  to  one  on  your 
winning." 

Suddenly  Elsie  flared  up  with  a  curious  little 
spirit  of  anger.  Her  mind,  highly  trained  though 
it  was  in  these  matters,  could  not  quite  appre- 
ciate Pip's  Quixotic  consideration  for  an  oppo- 
nent. 

"Pip,"  she  said,  "I  don't  believe  you  want 
to  win !  The  whole  thing  is  simply  a  joke  on  your 
part  —  your  idea  of  a  joke.  I  don't  think  it's  a 
very  nice  one:  you  know  you  can't  beat  me.  If 
you  really  want  to  marry  me  you  would  n't  — " 

"I  shall  beat  you  all  right,"  said  Pip  simply. 

"Why?" 

"I  know  I  shall,  that's  all." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  know.'9 

A  new  idea  occurred  to  Elsie. 

"You  dare  to  insinuate,"  she  said,  "that  I 
would  —  would  purposely  let  you  — " 

"  Should  I  want  to  marry  a  girl  of  that  sort?  " 
asked  Pip  gravely. 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  325 

Elsie  softened  again  at  this  genuine  compli- 
ment, but  she  still  felt  rather  doubtful  as  to 
whether  this  extraordinary  young  man  really 
and  truly  believed  that  she  was  to  be  won,  and 
won  only,  by  being  beaten  in  a  golf-match.  In 
any  case  the  situation  was  becoming  difficult. 
She  began  to  dust  the  sand  from  her  skirt  and 
to  make  other  preparations  for  departure.  Pip 
regarded  her  with  some  concern. 

"You're  not  going  yet,  are  you?"  he  said. 

"Yes.   It's  getting  late." 

"Well,  will  you  play  me?" 

"On  those  terms?" 

"Yes." 

"Of  course  not,  Pip.   You're  not  serious." 

Pip  leaned  forward,  and  put  his  hand  on  her 
arm.  She  had  half  risen,  but  she  now  found  her- 
self sitting  down  again,  rather  astonished  and 
rebellious,  listening  to  what  he  was  saying. 

"Elsie,  what  is  the  date  to-morrow?" 

"I  don't  know,"  petulantly.  "Girls  never 
know  dates." 

"I  forgot  that.  Well,  it  is  the  fourteenth  of 
August.  Do  you  know  what  is  going  to  happen 
at  Old  Trafford  to-morrow?" 

"Why  —  the  Australians!  Fancy  forgetting 
a  Test  Match!  That  comes  of  playing  golf  all 
day.  But,  Pip, "  —  she  stared  at  him  in  dismayed 
surprise,  —  "why  are  n't  you  there?  Surely  you 
were  chosen?" 


326  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

"Yes,  I  was  chosen." 

"Then,  why  are  n't  you  there?" 

"Because  I'm  here." 

"But,  Pip,  you  ought  to  be  playing  cricket." 

"I  prefer  to  play  golf." 

"But  it's  a  Test  Match." 

"I'm  going  to  play  in  a  Test  Match  of  my 
own  —  here." 

Elsie  was  silent  again,  and  gazed  at  him,  open- 
eyed.  Pip  saw  that  he  had  struck  the  right  note. 

"I  gave  up  the  cricket-match  to  play  with 
you,"  he  said.  "Will  you  play  with  me?" 

Elsie  was  defenceless  against  this  appeal.  She 
knew,  better  than  most  girls,  perhaps,  what  it 
must  cost  a  man  to  decline  an  invitation  to  play 
for  England. 

"All  right,  Pip,"  she  said  gently,  getting  up 
and  shaking  her  skirt,  "I'll  play  you.  Nine 
o'clock  to-morrow  morning.  I  shall  beat  you, 
though,"  she  added. 

Pip  said  nothing.  It  is  always  politic  to 
make  a  virtue  of  necessity.  That  is  why  one  al- 
lows a  woman  the  last  word. 

They  were  very  silent  as  they  walked  home  in 
the  twilight.  Pip,  having  achieved  the  object 
with  which  he  had  set  out,  had  no  further  re- 
marks to  make.  Elsie  seemed  less  at  ease,  and 
kept  shooting  half -amused,  half -angry  glances 


AN  ANCIENT  GAME  327 

at  the  obtuse  young  man  beside  her.  She  ob- 
jected to  being  treated  as  something  between  a 
Prehistoric  Peep  and  a  Scratch  Medal. 

Presently  they  came  to  Raven  Innes's  cottage. 

"Are  you  coming  in,  Pip?"  inquired  Elsie  as 
she  stood  at  the  door. 

"No,  thanks.  Raven  would  keep  me  up  all 
hours,  and  I'm  going  to  bed  very  early.  Good- 
night." 

"Pip  — "  began  Elsie  rather  unsteadily. 

Pip  turned  quickly,  and  beheld  her  standing 
on  the  step,  framed  by  the  open  doorway.  The 
setting  sun  glinted  on  her  hair,  and  there  was 
a  curious  and  unfamiliar  note  in  her  voice  as  she 
addressed  him. 

"Pip,"  she  said,  "I  don't  like  the  idea  of  this 
match.  It's  —  it's  contrary  to  Nature,  some- 
how. Golf  was  n't  intended  to  settle  such  ques- 
tions." 

Pip  made  no  reply,  but  gazed  upon  her.  In 
matters  of  this  kind  he  was  not  very  "quick  in 
the  uptake,"  as  they  say  in  Scotland.  Elsie  made 
a  curious  little  grimace  to  herself,  and  contin- 
ued — 

"Pip,  supposing  you  wanted,  very  much,  to 
get  something  that  lay  across  a  stream  which 
looked  rather  deep,  would  you  make  a  jump  and 
risk  a  ducking,  or  would  you  walk  miles  on  the 
off-chance  of  finding  a  bridge?" 


328  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

They  looked  at  each  other  steadily  for  a  min- 
ute, while  Pip  worked  out  the  answer  to  this 
conundrum. 

"I  should  probably  jump,"  he  replied,  — 
"that  is,  if  — " 

And  then  at  last  light  seemed  to  break  upon 
him.  The  blood  surged  to  his  brain,  and  he 
stepped  forward  impetuously. 

"Elsie!"  he  cried. 

But  the  door  was  shut. 

"Serve  him  right,  too!"  you  say.  Well,  per- 
haps; but  lack  of  presumption  is  a  rare  and  not 
unmanly  virtue. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"NATURAM  FURCA  EXP  ELLAS  .  .  ." 

ALAS! 

When  Pip  slipped  out  of  bed  at  six  o'clock 
next  morning  tie  window-panes  were  blurred 
and  wet,  and  the  Links  of  Eric  were  shrouded  in 
driving  sheets  of  rain. 

His  pithy  and  apposite  comments  on  the  situa- 
tion were,  had  he  only  known  it,  being  repro- 
duced (in  an  expurgated  form)  by  a  damsel  in 
a  kimono  at  a  bedroom  window  not  far  down 
the  road.  Elsie  surveyed  the  rain-washed  links 
reflectively,  and  sighed. 

"What  a  pity!"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  would 
have  given  him  such  a  lesson!  Now  I  suppose 
we  shall  both  waste  a  day." 

With  which  enigmatical  conclusion  she  crept 
into  bed  again. 

Pip  arrived  at  Knocknaha  after  breakfast,  but 
Elsie  flatly  refused  to  stir  outside  until  the  rain 
had  ceased.  This  was  no  more  than  her  swain 
had  expected,  and  he  returned  resignedly  to  the 
hotel,  where  he  passed  an  exceedingly  unprofit- 
able morning  smoking  and  playing  billiards. 

After  luncheon  an  ancient  mariner  in  a  blue 


330  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

jersey  and  a  high-crowned  bowler  hat  approached 
him  on  the  hotel  veranda  and  intimated  that  the 
day  was  a  good  one  for  deep-sea  fishing.  It  was 
certainly  no  day  for  courting,  and  Pip,  weary  in 
spirit,  was  fain  to  accept  the  implied  invitation. 

They  walked  to  the  beach  together,  and  be- 
gan to  haul  down  the  old  man's  boat.  This  done, 
the  oars  and  tackle  were  put  in,  and  the  expedi- 
tion was  on  the  point  of  departure  when  Pip 
suddenly  realised  that  it  had  stopped  raining. 

"Hallo!"  he  said.   "Rain  over?" 

"Aye,"  remarked  the  old  man;  "it  will  be  a 
grand  afternoon  yet." 

Pip  turned  upon  him  suddenly. 

"Are  you  sure?"  he  asked. 

"Aye." 

"Certain?" 

"  'Deed  aye,"  replied  the  old  gentleman  rather 
testily.  "When  the  top  of  yon  ben  is  uncovered 
like  so,  and  the  wind  — " 

"In  that  case,"  remarked  his  employer  sud- 
denly, "I  can't  come  fishing,  I'm  afraid.  I  must 
go  and  —  do  something  else.  Another  day,  per- 
haps." 

And  handing  the  scandalised  mariner  half-a- 
crown,  he  departed  over  the  sand-hills  at  a  rate 
which  would  certainly  have  brought  about  his 
disqualification  in  any  decently  conducted  walk- 
ing-race. 


NATURAM  FURCA  EXPELLA8  ...    331 

An  hour  later  two  players  approached  the  first 
tee.  They  were  Elsie  and  Pip. 

Now  the  nerves  of  both  these  young  people, 
although  neither  of  them  would  have  admitted 
it,  were  tightly  strung  up  by  reason  of  the  pres- 
ent situation.  Each  side  (as  they  say  in  the 
election  reports)  was  confident  of  success,  but 
their  reasons  for  confidence  were  widely  dissimi- 
lar. Pip  meant  to  win,  because  in  his  opinion 
the  only  way  to  gain  a  woman's  affection  is  to 
show  yourself  her  master  at  something.  If  he 
had  moved  in  another  class  of  society  he  would 
have  subdued  his  beloved  with  a  poker  or  a  boot, 
and  she  on  the  whole  would  have  respected  him 
for  it:  being  a  sportsman,  he  preferred  to  use  a 
golf -club. 

Elsie  meant  to  win  for  a  different  reason.  To 
begin  with,  her  spirit  rebelled  against  the  idea 
of  becoming  the  captive  of  Pip's  bow  and  spear. 
She  might  or  she  might  not  intend  to  marry 
him,  —  that  was  her  own  secret,  —  but  she  had 
not  the  slightest  intention  of  marrying  him  be- 
cause he  beat  her  at  golf.  Obviously,  the  first 
thing  to  do  was  to  beat  him;  then  the  situation 
would  be  in  her  hands  and  she  could  dictate  her 
own  terms.  What  those  terms  were  to  be  she 
had  not  quite  settled.  All  she  knew  was  that 
Pip,  if  he  were  to  have  her  at  all,  should  have 
her  as  a  favour  and  not  as  a  right. 


332  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

Consequently  the  lust  of  battle  was  upon  them 
both;  and  it  was  with  undisguised  chagrin  that 
they  found  three  couples  awaiting  their  turn  at 
the  first  tee.  To  be  kept  back  through  the  green 
is  irritating  enough  under  any  circumstances,  but 
when  you  are  engaged  in  a  lif  e-and-death  struggle 
for  the  matrimonial  stakes,  absolute  freedom  of 
action  is  essential. 

Instinctively  Pip  and  Elsie  turned  and  looked 
at  each  other  in  dismay.  Then  Pip  said  — 

"Let's  tramp  out  to  the  turn,  and  we'll  play 
the  last  nine  holes  first.  It  will  come  to  the  same 
thing  in  the  end." 

Elsie  agreed,  and  they  set  off  together  across 
the  links  in  the  direction  of  the  ninth  hole.  They 
had  no  caddies,  for  each  felt  that  on  this  occasion 
witnesses  were  impossible. 

Pip,  indeed,  offered  to  carry  Elsie's  clubs  as 
well  as  his  own,  but  he  was  met  with  a  very  curt 
refusal. 

"Nonsense!  You  would  always  be  hammering 
your  own  ball  a  hundred  yards  away  in  a  bunker, 
while  I  was  waiting  for  my  mashie." 

The  rain  had  ceased,  and  a  watery  sun  shone 
down  upon  them.  There  was  no  wind,  and  the 
conditions  for  golf  were  almost  perfect.  The 
greens  had  become  a  trifle  fiery  during  the  recent 
drought,  and  the  morning's  rain  had  stiffened 
them  finely. 


NATURAM  FURCA  EXPELLAS  ...    333 

Presently  they  found  themselves  on  the  tenth 
tee. 

"You  drive  first,"  said  Pip. 

Elsie  began  to  tee  her  ball. 

"It's  the  last  time  you'll  have  the  chance,"  he 
continued. 

Elsie  picked  up  her  ball. 

"For  that,"  she  remarked,  "y°u  shall  drive 
first.  I  am  not  going  to  take  any  favours  from 
a  duffer." 

Pip  rose  from  the  tee-box  on  which  he  was  sit- 
ting and  took  her  ball  from  her  hand.  Then  he 
stooped  down  and  teed  it  carefully. 

"Ladies  first,"  he  remarked  briefly. 

Elsie,  feeling  curiously  weak,  said  no  more,  but 
obeyed  him.  She  made  a  pretty  drive,  the  ball 
keeping  low,  but  towering  suddenly  before  it 
dropped.  It  lay,  clean  and  white,  in  a  good  lie  a 
hundred  and  fifty  yards  away. 

"Good  beat!"  said  Pip  appreciatively,  and 
began  to  address  his  own  ball.  His  rigid  stance 
and  curious  lifting  swing  were  the  exact  opposite 
of  Elsie's  supple  movements,  but  for  all  that  he 
outdrove  her  by  nearly  a  hundred  yards.  It  was 
a  Cyclopean  effort,  and  the  Haskell  ball,  as  it 
bounded  over  the  hard  ground,  which  had  been 
little  affected  by  the  rain,  looked  as  if  it  would 
never  stop. 

"Lovely  drive!"  cried  Elsie  involuntarily. 


334  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

"Yes,  it  was  a  hefty  swipe,"  admitted  Pip. 
"I  get  about  two  of  those  each  round.  The  rest 
average  five  yards." 

The  hole  was  a  simple  one.  A  good  drive  usu- 
ally left  the  ball  in  a  nice  lie,  whence  the  green, 
which  was  guarded  by  a  bunker,  could  be  reached 
with  an  iron.  Pip's  ball  was  lying  well  up,  and 
only  a  chip  with  his  mashie  was  required  to  lay 
him  dead.  Elsie  found  herself  faced  by  that 
difficulty  which  confronts  all  females  who  essay 
masculine  golf-courses.  Her  ball,  though  well  and 
truly  struck,  was  farther  from  the  hole  than  her 
iron  could  carry  it.  A  brassie-shot  would  get  her 
over  the  bunker,  but  would  probably  overrun 
the  green,  which  lay  immediately  beyond;  while 
anything  in  the  shape  of  a  run-up  ball  would  be 
trapped.  She  decided  to  risk  an  iron  shot.  She 
did  her  best,  but  the  distance  was  too  great  for 
her.  The  ball  dropped  into  the  bunker  with  a 
soft  thud;  she  required  two  more  to  get  out;  and 
Pip,  who  had  succeeded  in  clearing  the  bunker 
with  his  second  and  running  down  a  long  putt, 
won  the  hole  in  an  unnecessarily  perfect  three. 

"One  down,"  said  Elsie.  "Too  good  a  start, 
Pip.  You  '11  lose  now." 

"Well  begun  is  half  done,"  retorted  Pip  sen- 
tentiously,  but  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  she 
spoke  with  some  truth. 

The  next  hole  was  over  four  hundred  yards 


NATURAM  FURCA   EXPELLAS  ...    335 

long,  and  as  such  should  have  been  a  moral  cer- 
tainty for  Pip.  However,  his  tee-shot  travelled 
exactly  two  feet,  and  his  second,  played  perforce 
with  an  iron,  not  much  farther.  Elsie  reached 
the  green  in  three  strokes  and  a  pitch,  and  won 
the  hole  in  six. 

At  the  next  hole  Pip  sliced  his  drive,  the  ball 
flying  an  immense  distance  and  curling  away  out 
of  sight  to  their  left.  (You  must  remember  that 
he  was  a  left-handed  player.)  Elsie,  as  usual, 
drove  a  picture  of  a  ball,  but  just  failed  to  reach 
the  green  with  her  second.  Meanwhile  Pip, 
tramping  at  large  amid  the  whin-bushes,  found 
his  ball  in  a  fairly  good  lie,  and  with  a  perfectly 
preposterous  cleek-shot,  which  seemed  to  Elsie  to 
travel  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  lay  on  the  edge 
of  the  green.  He  holed  out  in  two  putts,  and  won 
the  hole  in  four  to  her  five. 

They  were  warming  to  their  work,  and  each 
was  playing  a  characteristic  game.  The  next 
two  holes  were  short  ones,  across  a  high  ridge  of 
sand  and  back  again.  In  each  case  the  green 
could  be  reached  from  the  tee.  Pip,  who  had 
the  honour,  buried  his  ball  in  the  face  of  the 
sand-hill,  and  as  Elsie  cleared  the  summit  and 
lay  on  the  green,  he  gave  up  the  hole.  Driving 
back  again,  Elsie  carried  the  hill.  Pip  took  his 
cleek  this  time,  and  his  ball  followed  hers  straight 
over  the  guide-post.  When  they  reached  the 


336  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

green  they  found  the  balls  lying  side  by  side 
ten  yards  or  so  from  the  pin.  Pip  putted  first, 
and  lay  dead,  six  inches  from  the  hole. 

"This  is  the  first  half  we'll  have  had,"  he  said, 
as  he  stood  over  the  hole  waiting  for  Elsie  to 
putt. 

"Wait  a  little,"  said  Elsie. 

She  took  the  line  of  her  putt  with  great  care, 
and  allowing  nicely  for  the  undulations  of  the 
green,  just  found  the  hole,  and  again  took  the 
lead,  having  won  the  hole  in  two  to  Pip's  three. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  any  more  about  flukes," 
remarked  Pip  severely  as  he  replaced  the  flag. 

"I  won't,"  retorted  Elsie,  "if  you  won't  talk 
to  me  about  halves." 

Pip  made  no  mistake  at  the  next  two  holes, 
the  sixth  and  seventh.  Both  were  long  and 
straight,  and,  though  Elsie  drove  as  sturdily 
as  ever,  Pip's  determined  slogging  brought  him 
to  the  green  before  her  each  time,  and  at  the 
seventh  hole  he  stood  one  up. 

The  next  hole  was  uneventful.  The  course 
here  ran  straight  along  the  edge  of  the  shore, 
with  the  sea  on  their  right.  Pip,  unmindful  of 
the  necessity  for  straightness,  hit  out  with  his 
usual  blind  ferocity,  and  was  rewarded  by  seeing 
his  comparatively  new  Haskell  fly  off  in  a  deter- 
mined and  ambitious  effort  to  reach  the  coast  of 
Norway. 


NATURAM  FURCA   EXPELLAS  ...    337 

"The  sea,"  remarked  Elsie  calmly,  "is  out  of 
bounds.  You  drop  another  and  lose  distance." 

With  the  advantage  derived  from  Pip's  mis- 
hap, Elsie  just  won  the  hole.  The  next,  the  ninth 
(the  eighteenth  and  last  if  they  had  started  from 
the  first  tee),  a  dull  and  goose-greeny  affair,  as 
most  home-holes  are,  was  halved,  and  the  match 
stood  "all  square  at  the  turn." 

They  sat  down  for  a  moment  on  a  club-house 
seat  on  their  way  to  the  first  tee  proper,  to  begin 
the  second  half  of  their  round. 

"By  gum,  this  is  a  game!"  said  Pip,  smacking 
his  lips. 

"Rather!"  said  Elsie  as  heartily. 

And,  at  that,  a  little  chill  of  silence  fell  upon 
them.  In  the  sheer  joy  of  battle  they  had  almost 
forgotten  the  great  issues  that  hung  on  the  result. 
They  were  absolutely  alone  on  the  links.  The  few 
players  who  had  ventured  out  after  the  rain 
ceased  were  well  on  their  way  round  —  some- 
where near  the  ninth  hole,  probably;  and  the 
green-keeper  had  taken  advantage  of  slackness  in 
business  to  go  home  to  his  tea.  The  sky  was 
overcast,  and  promised  more  rain. 

Suddenly  Elsie  sprang  up. 

"Come  on,"  she  said  briskly.  "My  honour,  I 
think?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Pip. 

For  the  tenth  tune  that  afternoon  Elsie  drove 


338  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

the  ball  far  and  sure,  straight  for  the  green.  Pip's 
heart  smote  him.  Who  was  he  that  his  crass  and 
brutal  masculine  muscle  should  be  permitted  to 
annul  the  effects  of  Elsie's  delicate  precision  and 
indomitable  pluck? 

"Elsie,"  he  said  suddenly,  "if  you  don't  win 
this  match  —  you  deserve  to!" 

Elsie  looked  up  at  him.  For  a  moment  her 
heart  softened.  She  felt  inclined  to  tell  him 
something  —  that  she  did  not  want  to  win  after 
all,  that  the  game  was  his  for  the  asking,  that 
she  would  surrender  unconditionally.  But,  even 
as  she  wavered,  Pip  unconsciously  settled  the 
matter  by  driving  his  ball  just  about  twice  the 
distance  of  hers.  Without  another  word  she 
picked  up  her  clubs  and  set  off  to  play  her  second. 
But  her  brassie-shot  found  a  bunker,  and  as  her 
skill  lay  in  avoiding  difficulties  rather  than  in 
getting  out  of  them,  she  soon  found  it  necessary 
to  give  up  the  hole. 

The  stars  in  their  courses  now  began  to  fight 
for  Pip.  His  ball  from  the  next  tee,  badly 
topped,  ran  merrily  into  a  bunker,  hopped  out, 
and  lay  on  fair  turf  five  yards  beyond.  Upset, 
perhaps,  by  this  fluke,  Elsie  for  the  first  time 
bungled  her  tee-shot,  sliced  her  second  into  a 
bad  lie,  and  arrived  at  the  green  to  find  that 
Pip,  who  had  been  playing  a  kind  of  glorified 
croquet-match  against  an  invisible  opponent, 


NATURAM  FURCA   EXPELLAS  ...    339 

with  his  iron  for  a  mallet  and  whin-bushes  for 
hoops,  was  still  a  stroke  to  the  good.  She  lost  the 
hole. 

Pip  was  now  two  up,  with  seven  to  play.  But 
Elsie's  cup  was  not  yet  full.  Her  next  drive  was 
caught  most  unfairly  in  an  aggressively  fresh 
rabbit-scrape,  which  lay  right  in  the  fairway  to 
the  hole.  Pip  offered  to  allow  her  to  lift  it,  but 
she  declined.  Pip's  good  luck  also  continued,  for 
though  he  pulled  his  drive  over  some  sand-hills 
to  the  right,  he  found  his  ball  lying  teed  up  "on 
the  only  blade  of  grass  for  miles,"  as  he  explained 
on  reappearing.  He  reached  the  green  in  two, 
Elsie  taking  three,  and  won  the  hole. 

Three  down,  and  six  to  play! 

There  was  no  question  of  giving  in  in  Elsie's 
heart  now.  She  had  hesitated,  and  was  lost,  or 
at  any  rate  committed  to  a  life-and-death  strug- 
gle. There  can  be  no  graceful  concessions  when 
one  is  three  down.  Under  such  circumstances  a 
virtue  is  apt  to  be  misconstrued  into  a  necessity. 

The  next  hole  was  the  longest  in  the  course, 
and  Elsie  felt  that  it  was  a  gift  for  Pip.  That 
erratic  warrior,  however,  failed  to  carry  the  burn, 
distant  about  fifteen  yards  from  the  tee,  and  was 
ignominiously  compelled  to  fish  his  ball  out,  drop, 
and  lose  a  stroke.  This  gave  Elsie  some  much- 
needed  encouragement.  Her  tee-shot  took  her 
well  on  her  way,  and  the  ball  lay  so  clean  for 


340  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

her  second  that  she  was  enabled  to  take  her 
driver  to  it.  One  more  slashing  stroke,  with  her 
brassie  this  time,  delivered  with  all  the  vigour 
and  elasticity  of  which  her  lithe  young  body  was 
capable,  and  she  lay  only  ten  yards  from  the 
green.  Pip,  despite  some  absolutely  heroic  work 
with  his  beloved  cleek,  was  unable  to  overcome 
the  handicap  of  the  burn,  and  reached  the  green 
a  stroke  behind  her.  However,  his  luck  stood  by 
him  once  more,  for  he  accomplished  a  five-yard 
putt,  and  halved  the  hole. 

"Good  putt!"  said  Elsie  bravely. 

"All  putts  of  over  three  feet,"  remarked  Pip, 
sententiously  quoting  one  of  his  favourite  golfing 
maxims,  "are  flukes." 

Fluke  or  no  fluke,  Elsie  was  three  down,  with 
only  five  to  play.  Another  hole  lost,  and  Pip 
would  be  "dormy."  Fortunately  the  next  three 
holes  were  of  the  short  and  tricky  variety,  pre- 
senting difficulties  more  easily  to  be  overcome 
by  a  real  golfer  than  a  human  battering-ram. 
Elsie  rose  to  the  occasion.  She  set  her  small  white 
teeth,  squared  her  slim  shoulders,  and  applied 
herself  to  the  task  of  reducing  Pip's  lead.  And 
she  succeeded.  The  first  hole  she  took  in  a  per- 
fect three,  Pip,  who  had  encountered  a  whin-bush 
en  route,  requiring  thirteen ! 

"One  thing,"  he  remarked  philosophically  as 
he  mopped  his  brow,  "I  did  the  job  thoroughly. 


NATURAM  FURCA   EXPELLAS  ...    341 

That  whin-bush  will  never  bother  anybody 
again." 

The  next  hole  was  a  real  triumph  for  Elsie. 
She  was  weak  with  her  approach,  and  arrived 
on  the  green  in  three  to  Pip's  two.  Pip  played 
the  like,  hit  the  back  of  the  hole  hard,  hopped 
over,  and  lay  a  foot  beyond  —  dead. 

"This  for  a  half,"  said  Elsie. 

"This"  was  an  exceedingly  tricky  putt  of 
about  eight  yards  over  an 'undulating  green.  She 
carefully  examined  the  lie  of  the  ground  in  both 
directions,  thrust  her  tongue  out  of  one  corner 
of  her  mouth  —  an  unladylike  habit  which  in- 
truded itself  at  moments  of  extreme  tension  — 
and  played.  The  ball  left  her  putter  sweetly,  suc- 
cessfully negotiated  the  various  hills  and  dales  of 
the  green,  and  dropped  into  the  hole. 

" Grand  putt ! "  said  Pip.  "I  must  n't  miss  this 
of  mine." 

He  humped  his  shoulders,  bent  his  knees,  and 
addressed  the  ball  with  all  the  intense  elabora- 
tion usual  in  a  player  suddenly  called  upon  to 
hole  a  ball  which,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
he  would  knock  in  with  the  back  of  his  putter. 
Whether  his  impossible  posture  or  his  recent 
unequal  encounter  with  the  whin-bush  was  re- 
sponsible will  never  be  known,  but  the  fact 
remains  that  he  missed  the  hole  by  inches,  and 
so  lost  it  by  one  stroke. 


342  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

Elsie  stifled  the  scream  of  delight  that  rose  to 
her  lips. 

"One  down,  and  three  to  play,"  she  remarked, 
in  a  voice  that  would  tremble  a  little. 

She  made  no  mistake  with  the  next  hole.  For 
her  it  was  a  full  drive  over  a  high  bunker  on  to 
the  green.  Pip  took  his  cleek,  failed  to  carry  the 
bunker,  and  after  one  or  two  abortive  attempts 
to  get  out  of  the  shifty  sand  with  his  niblick,  gave 
up  the  hole,  Elsie's  drive  having  laid  her  a  few 
yards  from  the  pin. 

"All  square,"  announced  Elsie.  "Two  to 
play." 

"My  word,  Elsie,  this  is  a  match!"  repeated 


Elsie  replied  by  an  ecstatic  sigh. 

Both  had  entirely  forgotten  the  stake  for 
which  they  were  playing.  For  the  moment  they 
were  golfers  pure  and  simple.  They  were  no 
longer  human  beings,  much  less  male  and  female, 
less  still  lover  and  lass.  The  whole  soul  of  each 
was  set  on  defeating  the  other. 

But  there  are  deeper  passions  than  golf. 

"  Naturam  furca  expeUas,  tamen  usque  recurret  !  " 

—  which,  being  interpreted,  means  roughly  that 
if  a  man  and  a  maid  set  out  to  dislodge  Human 
Nature  from  their  systems  with,  say,  a  niblick, 
Human  Nature  will  inevitably  come  home  to 


NATURAM  FURCA   EXPELLAS  ...    343 

roost.  All  of  which  is  cold  truth,  as  the  event 
proved. 

Both  gave  an  exceedingly  moderate  exhibition 
at  the  seventeenth  tee,  Pip  because  he  not  in- 
frequently did  so,  and  Elsie  because  her  nerve 
was  going.  Their  second  shots  were  better, 
though  Pip  as  usual  got  farther  with  his  cleek 
than  Elsie  with  her  brassie.  Elsie  therefore  had 
to  play  the  odd  in  approaching  the  green.  This 
time  she  did  herself  justice.  It  was  a  perfect  shot. 
The  ball  rose  quickly,  fell  plump  upon  the  green, 
checked  itself  with  a  little  back-spin,  and  stag- 
gered uncertainly  towards  the  hole.  Finally  it 
stopped,  eighteen  inches  beyond  the  pin. 

Elsie  heaved  a  sigh  of  the  most  profound  relief. 
In  all  human  probability  she  was  sure  of  a  "half" 
now,  and  unless  Pip  laid  his  approach  dead  she 
would  win  the  hole  outright,  and  so  make  the 
match  safe,  safe,  safe!  She  involuntarily  clasped 
her  hands  together  over  her  beating  heart. 

Pip,  impassive  as  ever,  said  nothing,  but  took 
his  mashie  and  succeeded  in  reaching  the  green. 
Since  his  ball  lay  a  good  ten  yards  short,  his 
chances  of  a  half  looked  meagre,  but  he  grasped 
his  putter  with  determination  and  "went  for'* 
the  hole.  The  ball  rolled  smoothly  over  the 
green,  but  suddenly  turned  off  a  little  and  just 
rolled  past  the  lip  of  the  hole. 

"Bad  luck!"  said  Elsie,  with  ready  sympathy. 


344   .  .      THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

Bad  luck  indeed,  but  not  for  Pip.  The  ball,  as 
she  spoke,  suddenly  slowed  down  and  stopped 
dead,  midway,  to  a  hair's-breadth,  between  the 
ball  and  the  hole.  Elsie  required  only  a  short 
putt  to  win  the  hole  and  make  herself  "dormy," 
and  Pip  had  laid  her  a  dead  stymie. 

Involuntarily  they  looked  at  each  other.  Then 
Pip  said  quickly,  — 

"I'll  pick  up  my  ball  while  you  putt.  We 
are  n't  having  any  stymies  in  this  match,  of 
course." 

All  the  sportswoman  in  Elsie  revolted  at  this. 

"No,  Pip,"  she  said;  "certainly  not.  We  ar- 
ranged nothing  about  stymies  before  we  started, 
so  stymies  must  stand.  I  must  just  play  it." 

She  took  her  mashie,  and  made  a  gallant  but 
unsuccessful  effort  to  jump  her  ball  over  Pip's. 
Each  holed  the  next  putt,  and  the  match  re- 
mained square  —  with  one  to  play.  Ye  gods ! 

They  were  very  silent  as  they  prepared  to  drive 
off  for  the  last  time.  Absolutely  alone,  far  out  on 
the  course,  they  were  now  approaching  what  was 
properly  "the  turn,"  more  than  a  mile  from  the 
clubhouse. 

"I  shall  put  down  a  new  ball  here,"  said  Pip, 
"just  for  luck." 

"So  shall  I,"  said  Elsie. 

"We  mustn't  mix  them  on  the  green,  then. 
What  is  yours?" 


NATURAM  FURCA  EXPELLAS  ...    345 

"A  'Haskell.'" 

"Right.  Mine's  a  'Springvale  Kite.'" 

Elsie  had  the  honour,  and  drove  as  good  a  ball 
as  any  that  afternoon.  Pip,  determined  to  take 
as  few  risks  as  possible,  used  his  cleek,  and  lay 
just  beside  her. 

The  ninth  hole  on  the  Links  of  Eric  is  known 
as  "The  Crater."  The  green  lies  in  a  curious 
hollow  on  the  top  of  a  conical  hill.  An  average 
drive  leaves  your  ball  at  the  hill-foot  in  a  good 
lie.  After  this  only  one  stroke  is  of  the  slightest 
use.  You  take  your  farthest-laid-back  mashie, 
commend  your  soul  to  Providence,  and  smite. 
The  ball,  if  struck  as  desired,  will  rise  up,  tower, 
and  drop  into  the  basin  at  the  top  of  the  hill. 
Should  you  play  too  strongly  you  will  fly  over  the 
oasis  of  green  turf  and  fall  into  a  howling  wilder- 
ness of  bents,  sand,  and  whins  on  the  far  side; 
should  you  play  short,  your  ball  will  bury  itself 
in  the  slopes  of  shifting  sand  that  guard  the 
approach,  and  your  doom  is  sealed.  It  is  credibly 
reported  that  all  four  players  in  a  four-ball  match 
—  scratch  men,  every  one  —  once  arrived  upon 
the  Crater  green,  ball  in  hand,  each  having  given 
up  the  struggle  under  the  despairing  impression 
that  no  opponent  could  possibly  have  played 
more  strokes  than  himself. 

On  paper,  this  was  just  the  sort  of  hole  that 
Elsie  should  have  won  from  Pip.  But  in  practice 


346  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

the  conditions  were  even.  Pip's  Herculean  wrists 
made  it  possible  for  him  to  force  the  ball  up  to 
the  necessary  height  with  a  half-mashie-shot,  but 
for  Elsie  the  task  involved  a  full  swing  —  and  to 
keep  your  ball  under  absolute  control  in  such  cir- 
cumstances is  about  the  most  difficult  shot  in 
golf.  Pip's  approaching  was  at  its  worst  unspeak- 
able, but  on  this  occasion  he  was  at  his  best.  The 
ball  sailed  grandly  into  the  air  and  dropped  in  a 
reassuringly  perpendicular  fashion  into  the  Cra- 
ter. Elsie's  effort  was  almost  as  good,  though  her 
ball  curled  slightly  to  the  left  before  dropping. 

They  tramped  up  the  long  flight  of  wooden 
steps  which  facilitated  the  ascent  to  the  summit 
with  bated  breath.  A  glance  at  the  green  would 
decide  the  match. 

Elsie  reached  the  top  first.  Pip  heard  her  give 
a  little  gasp. 

One  ball,  new,  white,  and  glistening,  lay  on  the 
green  ten  or  twelve  yards  from  the  hole.  The 
other  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"Whose  ball,  I  wonder?"  said  Pip  calmly. 

They  stooped  together  and  examined  the  ball 
as  it  lay  on  the  green.  So  close  were  they  that 
Pip  was  conscious  of  a  flutter  that  passed  through 
Elsie's  body. 

The  ball  was  a  "Springvale  Kite." 

Pip  maintained  an  absolutely  unmoved  coun- 
tenance. The  ball  was  his,  and  so,  unless  a 


NATURAM  FURCA   EXPELLAS  ...    347 

miracle  intervened,  was  the  hole.  And  the 
match.  And  —  Elsie! 

But  that  mysterious  quality  which,  for  want 
of  a  better  name,  we  call  "sportsmanship,"  under 
whose  benign  influence  we  learn  to  win  with 
equanimity  and  lose  with  cheerfulness,  pre- 
vented him  from  so  much  as  turning  an  eye 
upon  his  beaten  opponent.  He  merely  remarked 
briskly — 

"We  must  find  your  pill,  Elsie.  It  can't  be  far 
off." 

Elsie  made  no  reply,  but  took  her  niblick  and 
began  to  search  rather  perfunctorily  for  the  lost 
ball.  She  could  not  speak:  the  strain  of  the 
match  had  told  upon  her.  After  all  she  was  a 
woman,  and  a  girl  at  that.  Pip's  iron  immobility 
made  her  feel  worse.  She  was  beginning  to  realise 
that  he  was  stronger  than  she  was  —  a  state  of 
affairs  which  had  never  appeared  possible  to  her 
before.  She  wanted  to  cry.  She  wanted  to 
scream.  She  wanted  to  go  home.  She  wanted  to 
beat  Pip,  and  now  that  feat  appeared  to  be  im- 
possible. Half  an  hour  ago  she  could  have  aban- 
doned the  match  with  good  grace.  She  might 
have  surrendered  with  all  the  honours  of  war. 
Now  she  would  be  dragged  home  at  the  wheels 
of  Pip's  chariot. 

Meanwhile  her  opponent,  that  tender-hearted 
and  unconscious  ogre,  was  diligently  poking 


348  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

about  among  the  bents  and  whins  for  the  missing 
Haskell.  He  was  genuinely  distressed  that  the 
match  should  end  thus.  Elsie  had  had  cruel  luck. 
She  should  have  won  the  last  hole,  and  at  any 
rate  halved  this  one.  He  took  no  pleasure  in  his 
prospective  victory.  He  had  wild  thoughts  of 
offering  to  play  the  hole  again,  but  dismissed 
them  at  once.  Elsie  might  be  only  a  girl,  but  she 
had  the  right  instincts,  and  would  very  properly 
regard  such  an  offer  as  an  insult.  If  only  her  ball 
could  be  found,  though,  Pip  flattered  himself 
that  he  could  go  on  missing  putts  after  Elsie  had 
reached  the  green  until  she  had  pulled  the  match 
out  of  the  fire.  Happy  thought!  he  would  so  ma- 
nipulate the  game  as  to  halve  the  hole  and  the 
match.  Then  Box  and  Cox  would  be  satisfied. 
Beat  Elsie,  plucky  little  Elsie?  Perish  the 
thought!  Pip's  sentimental  heart  overflowed. 
What  a  game  she  had  played ! 

But,  sentiment  or  no  sentiment,  a  lost  ball  is  a 
lost  hole,  and  unless  the  ball  could  be  found  Pip 
would  be  a  victor  mcdgre  lui. 

Coming  round  the  face  of  the  hill,  Pip  suddenly 
found  himself  a  few  yards  from  Elsie.  She  stood 
with  her  back  to  him,  unaware  of  his  presence. 
What  was  she  doing?  Certainly  not  looking  for 
her  ball.  Was  she  —  could  she  —  really  —  was 
Elsie,  the  proud,  the  scornful,  the  unbending, 
actually  cr — ?  Certainly  that  flimsy  article  in 


NATURAM  FURCA   EXPELLAS  ...    349 

her  hand  looked  like  a  handkerchief.  Perhaps  it 
was  only  a  fly  in  her  eye,  or  something. 

No.  Pip  watched  Elsie  for  a  moment  longer. 
It  was  not  a  fly  in  her  eye.  His  heart,  already 
liquescent,  melted  entirely.  He  tiptoed  away 
back  to  the  green. 

Once  there,  he  took  three  balls  from  his  pocket 
and  examined  them.  One  was  an  old  and  bat- 
tered "guttie,"  the  others  were  "  Kites/'  with 
Pip's  trade-mark  indelibly  stamped  upon  their 
long-suffering  skins.  None  of  these  were  suitable 
for  his  fell  purpose.  Nothing  daunted,  the  con- 
spirator stole  across  to  Elsie's  bag,  which  lay  on 
the  edge  of  the  green,  and  selected  from  the 
pocket  a  new  Haskell.  Carefully  fastening  up 
the  pocket  again,  he  walked  to  the  middle  of  the 
green,  and  after  a  furtive  glance  all  round  him 
—  dropped  the  ball  into  the  hole. 

Then  he  uplifted  his  voice  in  a  full-throated 
yell,  and  hurried  towards  the  spot  where  he  had 
last  seen  Elsie.  As  he  emerged  from  the  hollow 
green  he  met  her  face  to  face,  coming  slowly  up 
to  the  ridge.  Her  cheeks  were  rather  flushed  and 
her  eyes  shone,  but  her  handkerchief  was  reso- 
lutely tucked  away  in  her  blouse,  and  she  greeted 
Pip  with  a  ready  smile. 

"Elsie,"  said  Pip  excitedly,  "I've  found  your 
ball." 

"My  ball?  Nonsense!  Why,  I've— ". 


350  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

She  checked  herself  suddenly  and  followed  Pip. 
That  well-meaning  but  misguided  philanthropist, 
heedless  of  the  danger-signals  in  Elsie's  eyes, 
walked  to  the  hole,  and  there,  rather  writh  the 
air  of  an  amateur  conjurer  who  is  not  quite  cer- 
tain whether  his  audience  know  "how  it's  done" 
or  not,  picked  out  the  ball. 

"There's  your  ball,"  he  said.  "Good  hole,  in 
two!  Congratters ! " 

He  handed  her  the  ball  with  a  clumsy  gesture 
of  good-will. 

Elsie  regarded  the  unoffending  Haskell  in  a 
dazed  manner  for  a  moment,  turned  white  and 
then  red,  and  finally  looked  Pip  squarely  in  the 
face  without  speaking.  Then  she  flung  the  ball 
down  upon  the  green,  turned  on  her  heel  with 
a  passionate  whirl  of  her  skirt,  and  stalked  off, 
leaving  Pip  staring  dejectedly  after  her. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"...  TAMEN  USQUE  RECURRET" 

ELSIE  walked  on.  Her  face  was  set,  and  her 
blue-grey  eyes  had  a  steely  look.  In  her  hand 
she  carried  a  golf -ball  —  not  the  one  which  poor 
Pip  had  "discovered"  in  the  hole,  but  another, 
her  own,  the  genuine  article.  She  had  spied  it, 
lying  in  an  absolutely  unplayable  position  under 
a  stone,  almost  immediately  after  Pip  had  left 
her  to  her  handkerchief.  She  had  picked  it  up, 
and  was  on  her  way  back  to  the  green  to  inform 
her  opponent  that  the  match  was  his,  when  she 
was  startled  by  a  mighty  shout,  and  arrived  in 
time  to  witness  the  whole  of  Pip's  elaborate  con- 
juring-trick.  She  grasped  the  situation  at  once, 
and  all  the  woman  in  her  blazed  up  at  this  mon- 
strous piece  of  impertinence.  Her  anger  caused 
her  to  overlook  the  fact  that  Pip,  in  his  desire 
to  save  her  from  mortification,  had  deliberately 
sacrificed  his  chances  and  thrown  away  the  spoils 
of  victory.  For  the  moment,  all  she  realised  was 
that  he  had  "patronised"  her,  treated  her  like  a 
spoiled  child,  and  allowed  her  to  win.  Her  blood 
boiled  at  the  idea.  She  walked  on  quickly. 


352  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

It  was  not  until  she  had  proceeded  for  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  that  she  discovered  that 
she  was  going  in  the  wrong  direction.  The  ninth 
hole  was  situated  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  links, 
and  as  she  had  turned  on  her  heel  and  swung  off 
more  with  the  idea  of  abandoning  her  present 
locality  than  of  reaching  another,  she  realised 
that,  if  she  continued  on  her  present  course, 
every  step  would  take  her  farther  from  the  hotel. 
The  discovery  added  to  her  wrath.  She  was 
making  herself  ridiculous  now.  Pip  had  proba- 
bly noticed  her  mistake,  and  was  in  all  likelihood 
still  standing  on  the  green  laughing  at  her.  Re- 
turn and  walk  past  him  she  would  not.  Only  one 
thing  remained  to  be  done:  she  would  turn  in 
among  the  neighbouring  sand-hills,  make  a 
detour,  and  walk  home  along  the  shore. 

A  friendly  gap  between  two  hillocks  presented 
itself  on  her  left,  and  she  swung  round  and  made 
for  it.  As  she  passed  through  the  entrance  she 
could  not  help  looking  back.  Pip  was  sitting  on 
the  tee-box  beside  the  now  distant  green.  His 
chin  was  buried  in  his  hands,  and  he  was  gazing 
out  to  sea,  with  his  pipe  projecting  from  his 
mouth  at  a  reflective  angle. 

Elsie  knew  that  attitude. 

"He's  thinking  the  situation  over,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "Let  him:  it  will  do  him  good.  Oh, 
dear!  where  have  I  got  to  now?" 


.  .  .  TAMEN   USQUE  RECURRET      353 

She  walked  into  a  tiny  amphitheatre.  All 
round  her  rose  walls  of  fine,  shifting,  running 
sand.  They  sloped  up  gradually,  to  where  they 
had  fallen  away  from  the  surrounding  summit, 
leaving  a  crumbling  precipice  six  or  seven  feet 
high,  crowned  with  a  projecting  rim  of  treacher- 
ous turf,  —  a  natural  bunker  if  ever  there  was 
one,  and  almost  as  difficult  of  exit  for  a  girl  as 
for  a  golf -ball. 

But  Elsie  made  the  attempt.  She  was  deter- 
mined not  to  go  back  through  the  gap  into  Pip's 
range  of  vision  if  she  could  help  it.  She  strug- 
gled up  the  slope  of  yielding  sand,  which  sank 
beneath  her  feet  and  trickled  into  her  shoes:  she 
reached  the  top,  laid  hold  of  the  overhanging 
turf,  and  tried  to  pull  herself  up.  But,  just  as  she 
placed  a  triumphant  knee  on  the  summit,  the 
crumbling  fabric  subsided  beneath  her  weight, 
and  she  was  projected  in  a  highly  indecorous 
fashion  to  the  foot  of  the  slope. 

On  this  occasion  Elsie  had  some  cause  to  feel 
grateful  that  Pip  (or  indeed  any  other  gentleman) 
was  not  present.  But  the  idea  did  not  occur  to 
her.  In  fact,  things  had  come  to  a  crisis.  She 
was  tired  out  after  her  hard  game,  disappointed 
at  the  result,  —  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  not 
very  clear  as  to  whether  she  had  won  or  lost,  — 
and  thoroughly  demoralised  and  unstrung  by  the 
strain  of  recent  events.  She  had  planned  out  the 


354  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

present  comedy  with  some  care,  assigning  to 
herself  the  superior  and  congenial  role  of  mag- 
nanimous conqueror,  and  to  Pip  that  of  humbled 
and  grateful  victim.  Somehow  everything  had 
gone  wrong.  She  was  angry  with  herself  and 
furious  with  Pip,  and  now  she  had  fallen  down 
several  yards  of  slippery  sand  and  twisted  her 
foot.  She  was  not  sure  if  the  comedy  had  turned 
out  a  tragedy  or  a  farce;  all  she  realised  was 
that  it  had  been  a  dismal  failure.  In  short,  Elsie 
had  expelled  Nature  with  a  pitchfork,  and  now 
Nature  was  coming  home  to  roost. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  pitchfork,  Nature  bore  no 
malice.  On  the  contrary,  quite  aghast  at  the 
havoc  that  her  brief  absence  had  created,  she 
at  once  took  her  luckless  daughter  in  hand.  Con- 
sequently Elsie,  poor,  distracted,  overwrought 
Elsie,  threw  herself  down  on  the  scanty  grass, 
and  found  immediate  relief  in  woman's  priceless 
and  ever-to-be-envied  panacea  for  all  ills  —  a 
good  cry. 

How  long  she  lay  sobbing  she  did  not  know. 
When  she  at  length  raised  her  head  from  the  turf 
and  began  to  dab  her  eyes  with  a  damp  and  en- 
tirely inadequate  pocket-handkerchief,  she  be- 
came aware,  with  a  curious  lack  of  surprise,  that 
Pip  was  sitting  a  few  yards  from  her.  His  pipe 
was  no  longer  in  his  mouth,  and  he  was  regarding 
her  intently  with  serious  eyes. 


.  .  .  TAMEN   USQUE  RECURRET      355 

"You  left  your  clubs  behind  you,"  he  said. 
"I  brought  them  along." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Elsie. 

There  was  a  pause.  Finally  Elsie  completed 
operations  with  the  handkerchief,  and  looked 
Pip  squarely  hi  the  face  Her  tears  seemed  in 
some  mysterious  way  to  have  washed  all  feelings 
of  anger,  restraint,  and  false  sentiment  out  of  her 
head.  For  all  that,  she  was  not  absolutely  com- 
fortable. Pip  must,  of  course,  be  punished  for 
having  put  that  ball  into  the  hole;  but  the  per- 
formance of  this  duty  demanded  firmness  and 
judicial  dignity,  and  she  felt  guiltily  conscious 
that  her  recent  tears  would  detract  somewhat 
from  its  effectiveness. 

Pip,  however,  was  the  first  to  break  the 
silence. 

"I  was  wondering,"  he  remarked,  "why  you 
raced  off  like  that  just  now.  Of  course,  there 
was  one  explanation,  —  that  you  wanted  to  lose 
the  match,  and  were  sick  at  having  won  it,  — 
but  I  was  n't  such  a  bounder  as  to  think  that.  I 
smoked  a  pipe  or  two  up  there,"  —  Elsie  started; 
she  had  not  realised  that  her  cry  had  lasted  so 
long,  —  "and  I  thought  it  all  over  to  see  if  I 
could  come  to  a  satisfactory  solution  of  the 
mystery,  and  — " 

Elsie  unclosed  her  left  hand,  and  displayed  a 
golf-ball,  which  she  tossed  towards  him. 


356  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

"There's  the  solution,  Pip,"  she  said. 

Pip  picked  up  the  ball  and  examined  it.  Then 
he  took  another  from  his  pocket  and  compared 
the  two. 

"Ah!"  he  remarked.  "Then  you  spotted  me. 
I  thought  you  had,  but  I  could  n't  see  how.  It 
never  occurred  to  me  that  you  had  found  your 
ball.  I  thought  perhaps  you  had  seen  something 
wrong  with  the  one  I  put  —  took  out  of  the  hole, 
but  I  see  they  are  both  identical.  There's  not 
a  mark  on  either.  It  was  a  pity  you  found  yours. 
If  you  had  n't,  all  would  have  ended  happily, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"For  me  or  for  you?" 

"For  both  of  us." 

"Then  you  wouldn't  have  minded  losing?" 
This  with  a  scornful  little  laugh. 

"No,  not  in  this  case." 

There  was  another  silence.  That  Pip  should 
not  mind  losing  a  match  of  which  she  was  the 
prize  struck  Elsie  as  uncomplimentary,  not  to  say 
rude. 

But  Pip  was  never  rude  to  her.  Obviously 
there  was  something  more  to  come.  She  waited 
patiently.  Pip  gave  no  sign. 

Presently  feminine  curiosity  overcame  pride, 
and  she  asked,  — 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'in  this  case'?" 

"I  mean  this,"  said  Pip.   "I  don't  like  losing 


.  .  .  TAMEN   USQUE  RECURRET      357 

matches  at  any  time,  —  nobody  does,  —  but  in 
this  case,  your  case,  I  was  glad." 

"Oh!  Why?" 

"At  first  it  was  because  I  could  n't  bear  to  see 
you  beaten  after  the  plucky  fight  you  made. 
I  Ve  often  felt  the  same  thing  at  cricket,  when 
some  chap  is  sticking  in  to  keep  the  last  wicket 
up,  and  I  am  put  on  to  knock  it  down.  Admira- 
tion for  a  gallant  foe,  and  all  that,  you  know. 
But  now  I  am  glad  for  quite  another  reason  — 
jolly  glad!"  He  gave  the  girl  a  look  that  was 
quite  new  to  her. 

"Why  are  you  glad,  Pip?"  she  asked,  not 
unkindly. 

"Well,  I  had  a  good  long  think  just  now,  up 
on  that  green,  and  a  lot  of  things  were  made 
plain  to  me  that  had  never  struck  me  before. 
First  of  all,  I  realised  that  you  had  been  quite 
right." 

"Right?  About  what?" 

"About  this  golf -match  being  contrary  to 
Nature.  Love  affairs  are  n't  built  that  way.  I 
had  no  right  to  try  and  force  such  terms  on  you. 
I  see  that  now.  I  tried  to  drive  you  into  a  cor- 
ner. It  was  a  low-down  trick,  though  I  thought 
it  a  fair  enough  offer  at  the  time.  I  was  quite 
sincere." 

"I  know  you  were,"  said  Elsie  quickly. 

Pip  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  for  a  moment. 


358  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

"Thank  you,"  he  said;  "it  was  decent  of  you 
to  say  that.  Now,  where  I  made  my  error  was  in 
this.  I  did  n't  think  it  mattered  much  whether 
I  got  you  willing  or  unwilling,  so  long  as  I  got 
you.  It  was  you  I  wanted,  you  —  Elsie  —  alive 
or  dead,  so  to  speak,  —  nothing  else  mattered. 
And  then  suddenly  I  saw  what  a  fool  I  had  been. 
I  had  forgotten  that  there  were  two  sides  to  the 
question.  When  a  man  wins  a  race  or  a  com- 
petition of  any  kind,  he  sticks  the  prize  up  on 
his  mantelpiece  and  takes  no  further  notice  of 
it  beyond  looking  at  it  occasionally  and  feeling 
glad  he's  got  it.  Once  there,  it  ceases  to  have 
such  an  interest  for  him:  he  has  n't  got  to  live 
with  it  or  cart  it  about  with  him.  I  am  afraid 
I  was  looking  at  you  rather  in  that  light.  I  was 
so  taken  up  with  the  idea  of  winning  you  that 
I  forgot  about  —  about  —  " 

"About  having  to  'cart  me  about  with  you'?" 
said  Elsie. 

"Yes,  that's  it.  I  forgot  I  could  n't  put  you 
on  the  mantelpiece  and  leave  you  there:  I  had 
to  consider  your  point  of  view  as  well  as  my 
own.  It  was  then  I  realised,  all  in  a  moment, 
that  unless  you  came  to  me  absolutely  of  your 
own  free  will,  without  terms  or  conditions,  you 
couldn't  come  at  all,  —  and  what's  more,  I 
would  n't  want  you  to;  and  that's  saying  a  good 
deal,  as  you  know." 


.  .  .  TAMEN   USQUE  RECURRET      359 

He  paused  suddenly,  and  darted  a  rather 
ashamed  look  at  Elsie. 

"I  suppose  all  this  seems  fearfully  obvious  to 
you,"  he  said.  "Most  men  would  have  found 
it  out  for  themselves  from  the  beginning." 

"Some  men  never  find  it  out  at  all,  Pip." 

"Well,  that's  comforting.  Anyhow,  having 
reasoned  it  all  out  up  there,  I  put  my  pipe  in  my 
pocket  and  came  along  here  to  tell  you." 

"To  tell  me  what?" 

"How  sorry  I  was." 

"What  for?" 

"For  having  behaved  like  a  — " 

"You  don't  look  very  sorry." 

Pip's  eyes  gleamed. 

"No,  and  I'm  not  either,"  he  shouted.  "I'm 
not,  I'm  not!  I  have  seen  something  since  then 
that  has  driven  all  my  sorriness  out  of  my  head. 
I  came  along  here,  fearfully  glum,  just  to  say  I 
was  sorry  to  have  forced  such  a  caddish  scheme 
on  you,  and  to  ask  if  I  might  carry  your  clubs 
back  to  the  house,  and  suddenly  I  came  round 
the  corner,  and  there  I  saw  you  —  crying." 

"And  that's  made  you  glad?"  said  Elsie 
coldly. 

"Glad?  I  should  think  it  did!"  He  stood  up, 
and  continued,  "Don't  you  see,  dear,  it  showed 
me  that  you  cared  ?  A  girl  does  n't  lie  sobbing 
on  the  sand  if  she's  absolutely  indifferent.  Oh, 


360  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

I  know  now,  right  enough:  half  an  hour  ago  I 
did  n't.  I  came  upon  you  then  hunting  for  your 
ball  and  dabbing  your  eyes  with  your  handker- 
chief; but  that  of  course  was  different;  I  knew 
it  was  n't  the  real  thing.  You  were  just  tired 
then,  and  sick  at  losing  the  game;  but  this  time" 
—  his  face  glowed  —  "this  time  I  knew  it  was 
the  real  thing,  and  that  you  cared,  you  really 
cared.  Yes,  you  cared;  you  had  cared  all  the 
time,  and  I  had  never  known  it!" 

He  stood  over  her,  absolutely  radiant:  no  one 
had  ever  seen  Pip  like  this  before.  Then  he 
dropped  down  on  to  the  grass  beside  the  girl,  and 
put  his  arm  inside  hers. 

"You  do  care,  don't  you,  Elsie?"  he  said. 

Elsie  turned  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face, 
without  a  trace  of  affectation  or  fear. 

"Yes,  Pip,  I  do,"  she  answered. 


It  was  long  after  six  when  they  emerged  from 
their  retreat.  The  clouds  were  drifting  up  once 
more  from  the  southwest,  and  everything  prom- 
ised a  wet  night.  There  was  little  wind,  but 
already  rain-drops  were  beginning  to  fall,  un- 
steadily and  fitfully.  Presently  this  period  of 
indecision  ceased,  and  the  rain  came  down  in 
earnest.  The  two  paused,  and  Pip  surveyed  Elsie's 
thin  blouse  disapproving!}7. 


.    .  .  TAMEN   USQUE  RECURRET      361 

"Isn't  there  some  place  where  we  can  shel- 
ter?" said  Elsie. 

"There's  a  sort  of  tin  place  over  there,  but  you 
would  be  soaked  through  before  you  got  half- 
way to  it.  Besides,  this  rain  means  business;  it'll 
go  on  all  night  now." 

"Come  along  then,"  said  Elsie;  "we  must 
hurry.  I  can  change  when  we  get  home." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Pip. 

He  began  to  divest  himself  of  his  tweed 
jacket. 

"Put  this  on,"  he  said. 

"Nonsense,  Pip;  you'll  get  soaked." 

Pip  sighed,  gently  and  patiently. 

"Put  it  on,"  he  repeated,  holding  it  open  for 
her. 

Elsie  glanced  at  him,  and  obeyed. 

"You're  an  obstinate  old  pig,  sometimes, 
Pip,"  she  remarked. 

And  so  they  tramped  home.  They  said  little: 
there  seemed  to  be  nothing  left  in  the  world 
worth  saying.  Pip  carried  both  sets  of  clubs  un- 
der his  left  arm.  Occasionally  he  sighed,  long 
and  gently,  as  one  who  has  done  his  day's  work 
and  is  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  Elsie  marched 
beside  him,  with  her  arms  buried  to  the  elbows  in 
the  deep  pockets  of  Pip's  old  jacket.  (They  were 
spacious  pockets:  one  of  them  was  sheltering 
two  hands.)  At  intervals  Elsie  would  look  up 


362  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

at  Pip,  upon  whose  head  and  shoulders  the  rain 
was  descending  pitilessly.   Once  she  said,  — 
"Pip,  you're  getting  awfully  wet." 
Pip  looked  down   upon   her  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  looked  up  again,  and  shook  his  glisten- 
ing head  defiantly  at  the  weeping  heavens. 
"Who  cares?"  he  roared. 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


NON-RENEWA! 

REC'D  LD-URL 


SEP  2^1990 

OCT  2  A  1890 


JUL3H996 


I.E 


ElVED 


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